


Lavender & Gold

by ThornWild



Category: No Fandom, Original Work
Genre: Actors, Friendship, Hollywood, M/M, Musicians, Real Person Cameos, Romance, british film, british stage, west end
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-06-22
Updated: 2013-08-26
Packaged: 2017-12-15 17:55:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 9
Words: 30,810
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/852369
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ThornWild/pseuds/ThornWild
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Benjamin Connor’s rise to fame hardly surprised anyone, not even himself. He thrives in the spotlight and enjoys his work as an actor, but his world is turned topsy-turvy when he meets Mark, an unknown musician from Camden. As their relationship blossoms, Ben must decide whether to face the bigotry of Hollywood or keep his odd, interesting, gorgeous little punk a secret for the sake of his career. And for how long can such a high-profile individual keep a secret anyway?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Boy with the Lavender Eyes

**Author's Note:**

> Beta read by [Yettie One](http://www.gayauthors.org/forums/user/16277-yettie-one/) and edited by [George Richard](http://www.gayauthors.org/forums/user/7279-george-richard/), both of [GA](http://www.gayauthors.org/index.html).

‘Hi. I’m Mark.’ The boy smiled a crooked smile. Somewhere in his early twenties, he was far from classically beautiful. He was quite skinny, and quite a bit shorter than Ben’s six foot two. His nose was slightly asymmetrical, his face round. He wore his hair in an uneven side-cut with faint traces of green dye, washed out, and he had an industrial piercing in his right ear and a tunnel in the left. In spite of his unorthodox, bordering on punky appearance, however, he somehow oozed sex appeal. It was in the way he carried himself, the way he brought his glass (red wine, no fancy umbrella drinks) to his lips, the sway of his hips, the way he cocked his head to one side while he spoke, and Ben, who had always considered himself mostly straight, felt his mouth go slightly dry.

‘Ben,’ he said, shaking Mark’s hand.

‘I know,’ said Mark, still smiling. ‘I don’t live under a rock, you know.’ He was local; North London, judging by the accent. ‘Benjamin Connor, actor, hottest thing to come out of Britain since The Beatles, some say, though I don’t think that’s quite true.’ He took a sip of wine. ‘You do have one of the biggest fan followings on the Internet, though. Terrifying.’ His eyes sparkled. They were a dark grey blue, shifting in shades of lilac when they reflected the dim lights of the loft.

Ben’s rise to fame had hardly surprised anyone, not even himself. After numerous roles on the London stage, and appearances in several BAFTA-winning television productions, Hollywood had seemed like the natural next step and Benjamin Connor had become one of the biggest new names in show-biz. Ben didn’t mind his fan following one bit. He adored his fans almost as much as they adored him, and with every chat show appearance and movie premiere, he felt more and more at ease with his new role.

‘You seem to know everything about me,’ he said, smiling as well. 

Mark shrugged. ‘Not really. Seen all your films, though. You’re not half bad.’

Ben’s eyebrows disappeared into his hairline. _‘You’re not half bad.’_ It was a refreshing thing to hear. Usually, people said, ‘Holy shit, you’re awesome!’ or ‘How do you manage to capture your audience like that, you amazing creature, you?’ Ben always tried not to let the praise go to his head, but one did get to a point where one started to believe it. He was not, however, arrogant enough to be offended. So instead he said, ‘Thank you,’ and smiled graciously. Mark laughed.

‘Not what you’re used to hearing, I expect,’ he said. 

A brief silence followed, and Ben realised it was his turn to speak. ‘So, what do _you_ do, Mark?’

‘I’m a musician,’ Mark replied, taking another sip of his wine. ‘No one important. I’m so hip, no one’s ever heard of me.’

Ben smirked. ‘Meaning no disrespect of course, but in that case, how did you find yourself here tonight?’

Mark leaned in, bringing his lips close to Ben’s ear and whispered conspiratorially, ‘I’m a party crasher. Snuck in for a laugh. Expect they’ll find me out soon.’ He pulled back again and winked. 

‘This is a private function. I should inform the hostess,’ said Ben softly.

‘Yeah, but you’re not gonna,’ Mark replied. ‘You like me too much.’

‘Is that right?’ asked Ben, dropping his already considerable baritone in pitch. 

‘Oh, it’s sexy when you drop your voice like that.’ Mark’s words took Ben by surprise. It was not the first time in the course of their short conversation.

There came a soft buzzing sound from Mark’s pocket, and he pulled out his ringing mobile. ‘Oh, for fuck’s sake. . . Sorry, have to take this.’ He put the phone to his ear, but didn’t step away. ‘Hi.’ Pause. ‘Out. No, nothing like that, you ninny. . . Of course. No, why would I do that? I wouldn’t do that!’ Frustrated sigh, sip of wine. ‘Come on, sweetheart, just—yeah. I know, but you’re gonna have to start trusting me at some point, baby. I’ll be home later. I promise! Okay. Love you too. Bye.’ He blew out a puff of air as he put the phone back in his pocket.

‘Girlfriend trouble?’ asked Ben.

‘Boyfriend,’ Mark corrected. ‘Len. He’s such an insecure twat sometimes. . . No, sorry, that’s not fair. I shouldn’t drag you into this.’ He smiled at Ben.

‘So you’re—’ Ben had been about to say, ‘gay’, but cut himself off, realising that the question would have been both redundant and inappropriate. He cleared his throat. ‘You’re having problems. All couples do. I’m sure it’ll sort itself out.’

Mark cocked an eyebrow. ‘How would _you_ know?’ he asked. ‘More or less reliable sources from Graham Norton to The Daily Mail tell me you’ve been single for most of your acting career.’

Ben lowered his gaze, but smiled. ‘Yeah, you’re right about that. Guess I’m not the right person to be giving relationship advice.’

‘Probably not.’ Mark looked around, drained his wine glass and set it on an end table next to them. ‘I should probably get out of here before they catch me. Dying for a fag, anyway. It was nice meeting you, Ben.’ They shook hands, and when Mark pulled his away, Ben discovered a piece of paper in his own palm.

‘What’s this?’ he asked.

‘My number,’ said Mark, turning away.

‘What would I want with that?’

‘So you can call me.’

‘I’m not going to do that.’

‘Yes, you are.’

‘That’s—I’m not. . . You have a boyfriend!’ Ben stuttered.

Mark turned back with a smirk. ’Perv! Did I say this had anything to do with romance or sex?’ He looked away for a moment. Then he looked at Ben again. ‘Besides, that whole thing will probably end soon.’

‘You told that man you loved him,’ Ben reminded him.

‘I do. To absolute bits.’ Mark smiled sadly. ‘Doesn’t mean it won’t end. All things do.’

* * *

Ben woke up the next morning, bleary-eyed and hungover, to a phone call from his PA, Alice.

‘Nguh?’

‘Good morning, star shine!’ said Alice brightly. ‘Late night?’

‘Mnuh. . .’ Ben affirmed. ‘Wha’time ’sit?’

‘Eleven o’clock. Don’t worry, save for dinner with your parents at five you have the day off, so you can just relax. I just wanted to confirm that your flight to JFK leaves from Heathrow at 10:45 tomorrow. I’ll be by in a taxi to pick you up at 7:30. And I’ve confirmed your hotel booking for Manhattan. Do you need me for anything today?’

‘Mmno,’ Ben mumbled. ‘Don’t think so. . . ’M all set for painkillers and coffee. . .’

Alice giggled. ‘How much did you drink?’

‘I have absolutely no idea, Catherine kept the wine flowing like water.’

‘Well, all right then. I’ll take the day off. Should I ring you around three so you’re not late?’

‘No, I’m getting up.’ Ben groaned as he pulled himself into a sitting position.

‘You’ll be happy to know that _Singularity Sky_ is getting positive reviews from pretty much everyone, by the way. They all love you. And Catherine, most of them. _The Guardian_ expressed worry as to how it’s going to be received in America, though, with such an eccentric plot.’

Ben made a non-committal sound while he gathered his thoughts. ‘Well, if _Cloud Atlas_ could do it. . .’ he finally mumbled. ’ _Sky_ is nowhere near as eccentric as that.’

‘Are you still upset about being passed over for Ben Wishaw?’ Alice sounded amused. Ben wanted to blow a raspberry at her, but it felt like too much effort just then. ‘Anyway, I’ll call you at six tomorrow morning,’ she continued ‘Eat something, will you?’

‘Mm, yeah. Bye, Alice.’

He returned the telephone receiver to its base on the nightstand. Then he stood, shakily. His head felt like Dresden, his body like Hiroshima, and his bladder was looking to explode at any moment. His mouth tasted like something had died in it. He shuffled across the room, towards the bathroom, stopping on the way to rummage through the pocket of his (very fine, bespoke tailored) navy suit jacket for his mobile. As he pulled it out, a small, white piece of paper fluttered to the floor. He picked it up, with great effort and quite a few demonstrative grunts aimed at no one, and squinted at it. Eleven digits.

That young man’s phone number. What had his name been? Matt? Mark? Mark, he decided. Mark, the punky twentysomething who had flirted with him. He felt his face flush, thinking about him. Had he really found himself attracted to the boy? He had a hard time remembering what he had looked like. The only thing that came to mind was a pair of intense, dark greyish blue eyes, shifting in shades of lavender. 

He put the piece of paper on his desk and proceeded to the bathroom.

* * *

The following weeks were a whirlwind. After New York came LA, numerous chat show appearances, parties, meetings with directors and producers who wanted him, phone calls from his agent, Liam, who had scripts for him to look over, more parties, and, against his principles and better judgment, one slightly messy affair with an American actress (which went blissfully unnoticed by the media), before he was finally permitted to return to his flat in Soho. Here he had a week off, before he was due to start rehearsals for _The Crucible_ in the West End. It felt comforting to be back in his own home. Out there, he was constantly surrounded by people, never alone, never lonely. His flat was quiet, calm and dark. It was a relief, but he missed the constant company. On his own, with no one to perform for, Ben felt strangely empty.

Which was probably why, when he got in from Heathrow at eight in the evening, collapsing in his desk chair, and discovered Mark’s number where he’d left it on the desk, Ben thought, _Why not?_

He dialled the number on his mobile. It rang three times.

‘Hello?’

‘Mark?’

‘Yeah, that’s me.’

‘It’s Ben.’

Silence.

‘Ben who?’

‘Ben Connor.’

More silence.

‘Wow. I didn’t actually think you’d. . . that’s. . . wow.’

‘How have you been?’

‘Oh, you know,’ said Mark slowly, ‘starving artist. . . You?’

‘Stressed. Been travelling, working. Just got back to London tonight.’

‘And you rang _me_?’

Ben chose to change the subject rather than answer him. ‘How’s the boyfriend?’

‘Long gone.’

‘Oh.’ Ben processed this new information for a moment, and found himself oddly pleased with it.

‘So. . . d’you wanna go for a drink?’ asked Mark after a few moments.

Ben hesitated. ‘I’m not sure I can do that. . . People tend to go a bit mental around me at the moment.’

‘Ah. Of course.’ Mark sounded uncomfortable. Ben considered for a moment.

‘Do you like whisky?’ he asked eventually.

‘What?’

‘Whisky. Single malt. Scotch. Do you like?’

‘Er, yeah. . .’

‘Good. I have a bottle of twenty-one-year-old The Balvenie. Where do you live?’

‘Huh? Oh, er, Camden.’

‘Text me the address. I’ll come over.’

‘Are you serious?’ 

‘Yes. I’m bored. I have nothing better to do.’

‘. . .Okay.’

Ben hung up with a slightly odd, nervous feeling in his stomach. It had been a long time since he’d been with a man. Not since his university days, in fact. He had vague memories of hazy nights with one of his mates, drunk or high or both, going at it slowly, slowly on a narrow single bed, in the shower, on the floor. It had been fun, but nothing more. Somehow, though, for the weeks he’d spent in America he’d been unable to get Mark out of his head.

His mobile buzzed, with the promised text containing Mark’s address. This ought to be interesting.

* * *

Ben knocked twice on the door. It was opened almost immediately by a bemused looking Mark. Ben smiled, and Mark let him in, wordlessly.

He had dyed his hair since last Ben saw him. It was now a rather violent shade of magenta. He wore a grey tank top and torn jeans, and was barefoot.

‘Hungry?’ asked Ben. ‘I brought Chinese.’ He held up a white plastic bag containing two styrofoam containers.

Mark blinked. ‘Oh. Er, yeah. Cheers.’

‘Didn’t know if you had any preferences or anything, so I bought one Peking Duck and one with just veg.’

‘Oh. No, I eat everything.’

‘Good, we’ll just share.’

Ben kicked off his shoes and looked around the small basement flat. Aside from the tiny entrance hall, it was just one room, really. It had a kitchenette in one corner, a sleeping alcove in another. A door off the hall led to a small bathroom. The furniture was all varying degrees of ancient, the sort of things one might find in a flea market, and nothing matched. The walls were lined with bookcases overflowing with volumes. More stood in stacks on every available surface. There were two battered old acoustic guitars, a ukulele, a bass, a bass amp and a small 3/4 length electric piano stacked against a wall. The place was untidy, but cozy.

‘Sorry about the mess,’ Mark mumbled. ‘I started to tidy up a bit, but then I gave up.’ He made a face, then seemed to remember himself and added, ‘Erm, would you like some wine?’

‘No, thank you,’ said Ben. ‘Whisky this good should be enjoyed starting out sober, so one can appreciate it properly.’

‘Ah, rules me out, then.’ Mark smiled weakly. ‘I already had two glasses. . . I was nervous.’

Ben examined the person before him, all slumped shoulders, glancing about—not the confident, bordering on cocky man Ben had met at the party, but a boy somewhat out of his depth.

‘You still are, it seems,’ said Ben. ‘Allow me to put you at ease. The place is nice, I don’t mind a bit of a mess, and I’m not expecting anything from you but company. I rang you because the transition from being around lots of people every day to being all alone in one’s flat is a rough one, and because I liked you when we talked at that party. Now, relax, have a seat, and have some duck.’ He smiled his most reassuring smile, and Mark visibly relaxed a little bit. 

Ben set the plastic bag down on the low coffee table that stood before the mildewy couch, and pulled the whisky bottle out of his shoulder bag, putting that down as well. Then he proceeded to the kitchenette, rummaged through the cupboard for a couple of glasses (no two of these matched, either) and then sat down on the couch, patting the seat next to him to indicate for Mark to sit there. He did.

They ate their food, chatting idly about nothing. When they had finished, Ben poured the whisky.

‘This is for sipping, not shooting,’ said Ben as he poured. ‘This whisky was matured for twenty-one years on bourbon casks, and then stored on casks that previously held port. So, it’s quite sweet, has an almost honey-like character. Pleasantly delicate palate, quite fruity, yet also powerful.’

Mark laughed. ‘It’s like you’re giving me fancy wine.’

‘This is better than fancy wine,’ said Ben. ‘This is art.’ He handed Mark a glass. ‘Cheers.’

They each took a sip. Ben felt the sweet, amber liquid glide down his throat, warming him from the inside. He smacked his lips. ‘Ah!’ he said. ‘This is my favourite whisky in the world.’

‘Not bad,’ Mark agreed.

Mark wanted to know about Ben’s time in America, and Ben obliged. He shared some anecdotes about other actors and stories about the television appearances he’d made while they had more whisky.

‘So,’ said Mark, as Ben poured them a third glass, ‘why are you really here?’

Ben glanced at him. ‘What do you mean? I told you.’

‘No, but really,’ Mark prompted. ‘If this is some “let’s see how the yobbo lives” nonsense—’

‘It’s not!’ Ben protested. ‘I mean, in a way, but not the way you think. Most of my friends in London, they lead busy lives, I couldn’t just drop in on them like this. They’re all fancy parties and nights out, actors, directors, producers, theatre people. They’re all like me. I want to spend time with someone _not_ like me.’

‘So, you take a break from your glamorous movie star life to come hang with the working class?’

‘You know, contrary to popular belief, I’m not some posho,’ said Ben, gesticulating with his glass before taking a sip. ‘And, what do you mean, working class? You choose to live in a studio in Camden when you could get far better accommodations elsewhere in London for less. Judging by your bookshelf, you’re academic middle class, which makes us more or less equals as far as origins go.’

‘Bollocks!’ said Mark. ‘I know for a fact you went to public school.’

Ben shrugged. ‘I’m an only child, my parents doted. If you’re such a starving artist, how can you afford Camden this close to Market?’

‘I take odd jobs when I can get them,’ said Mark. ‘It’s harder since Len moved out, but my mum helps out when she can. I probably owe her a few thousand quid by now. . .’

‘How old are you, anyway?’ asked Ben.

‘Twenty-three!’ said Mark defensively, and Ben thought, not for the first time that night, _What the hell am I doing?_

‘So, you’re not a snob,’ Mark continued, raising his glass and inclining his head. ‘Well done. But do you honestly expect me to believe you’re here just because you wanted some company?’

Ben put his elbow on the backrest of the couch and turned towards his drinking companion. He weighed his words carefully for a moment before speaking. ‘I like having an audience,’ he confessed at last. 

‘So, this is all an act? You were making all that up, then?’

Ben rolled his eyes. ‘Everything’s an act, Mark. I’m always acting. All the world’s a stage, remember? But I’m an actor, not a liar. I haven’t made anything up.’

‘Still think there’s more to it.’

‘Oh? Why do _you_ think I’m here, then?’

‘I think you like me.’

‘Obviously. I already told you that.’

‘I mean, I think you’re attracted to me.’

‘I’m not gay.’

‘Maybe not. You’re still attracted to me, though.’

Ben smiled, leaning back somewhat and draining his glass. Mark did the same, and Ben topped them up. 

‘Well, you’ve seen me perform,’ said Ben after a moment. ‘My turn. You’re a musician, yes?’ He gestured vaguely at the instruments. ‘Play me something.’

Mark cocked an eyebrow. ‘What should I play?’ 

‘Whatever you like. Play one of your own songs, provided you write any.’

Mark seemed to consider for a moment. Then he nodded and stood up. He chose the more battered of the two guitars, a rather old Gibson, and tuned it quickly and efficiently in drop D. Then he sat down on the floor, cross legged, and played some chords.

His technique was far better than Ben had expected. The progression was relatively complex, and he had a good singing voice too; a clear tenor, bright and expressive. Ben didn’t pay attention to the words much, but leaned back in his seat, sipping his whisky. After the second chorus, he closed his eyes, enjoying the music.

Ben did not open his eyes immediately when the music stopped. He heard Mark put the guitar away, the slight clang of its body touching the floor. He heard him stand up, move closer. Then he felt a hand on the backrest on either side of his shoulders, and a pair of lips touched his, gently. Ben opened his eyes.

Mark pulled back slightly. His words came out somewhat slurred. ‘You come in here with your stupidly long legs and dark hair and cheekbones that can cut glass, and what the fuck do you call that eye colour anyway, blue-green-grey-gold? Offering me expensive whisky and telling me everything about yourself, and you expect me to _not_ make a move?’

‘You’re one to talk,’ murmured Ben. ‘The only way I can think to describe _your_ eyes is lavender.’

Mark burst out laughing, resting his head on Ben’s shoulder as he did so, and sat down in the couch next to him. Ben glanced at him and laughed as well. When the laughter died down, Mark leaned in for another kiss and Ben responded, letting Mark’s tongue in. Then Mark pulled back again, studying his face.

‘You haven’t done this before, have you?’ he asked. ‘With a man, I mean.’

‘I have!’ said Ben defensively. ‘But not in, what, fourteen, fifteen years. . .’

‘You’re really that straight?’

‘I did tell you.’

Mark nodded slowly. ‘D’you want me to go on?’ he asked after a few moments.

‘Maybe not tonight,’ said Ben, glancing at his watch. ‘I should get home soon. Jet lagged and all that.’

‘Course,’ said Mark. He hesitated, looking away. ‘But, some other time?’

Ben licked his lips, considering this for a moment. ‘Quite possibly,’ he said. ‘Don’t sit around waiting for the phone to ring, though. I’m not looking for a relationship.’

Mark nodded. ‘That’s fine. Neither am I.’

‘Right.’

‘Good.’

Ben leaned in and placed another brief kiss on Mark’s lips. ‘I’m gonna ring for a taxi,’ he said softly.

‘You don’t have to.’ Mark’s voice broke slightly. He cleared his throat. 

‘I know,’ said Ben. ‘But I will anyway. I’ll call you. You can call me, too, if you like.’

Mark shook his head. ‘I’ll probably end up drunk dialling you.’

‘That’s fine too,’ said Ben, and Mark laughed again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Singularity Sky is a science fiction novel by Charles Stross, which I highly recommend. I saw fit to borrow it and make a film out of it. I hope Mr. Stross does not mind.


	2. The Man with the Velvet Voice

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which there is Bolognese, text messages and a healthy helping of desire.

Ben spent the rest of the week in his flat, reading over his scripts and replying to e-mails. Occasionally, Mark would send him a text, breaking the monotony. 

_Almost got caught busking illegally on the tube today. Fuck the police. M_

_Came up with an idea for a new song. Want to play it to you next time we meet. M_

_Len rang me earlier. Nightmare. M_

_I’ve had a bit to drink, just wanted to say I’m thinking about you. M_

They did not arrive every day, nor did he get obnoxious or text again when Ben didn’t immediately reply.

Then rehearsals for _The Crucible_ started, and Ben did not have much time to think about Mark, but the texts kept coming, every other day or so. 

_Hope rehearsals are going well. I’m working hard too, got a gig. Don’t work too hard, remember to take breaks for whisky. M_

And Ben texted back, _Where’s your gig? I probably can’t make it either way, but I’ll have a glass of whisky in your honour. BC_

And then, on the play’s opening night, _Break a leg x_

Ben couldn’t have said why, but it made his heart leap, just a little.

He got stunning reviews. _‘Astoundingly cynical yet earnest performance,’_ they said, and, _‘A deeply original and entirely sexy interpretation of John Proctor.’_ The play itself was described with phrases such as _‘originality sans pretentiousness’_ , _‘stunning scenography’_ , and _‘riveting, clean-cut production’_. It was as he had expected. Somewhere, there had been a twinge of fear that his audience would hate him, that the critics would gang up on him en masse, but they didn’t, and Ben found himself wholly unsurprised. That was. . . disappointing. Not the reviews—they were most welcome and made him happy—but his total lack of surprise made him feel strangely empty.

So on his first night off following the premiere, he cancelled his dinner plans with Sir Derek Jacobi and sent a text to Mark. 

_I miss you. Come over?_

He attached his address, knowing full well what a risk he was taking. He and Mark had met twice. Objectively, rationally, it was very possible that he was simply a fame leacher, or worse, that he was planning to sell him out or blackmail him in some way, but Ben didn’t really believe that. He couldn’t. He _knew_ with the utmost certainty that this boy, who had seduced him so completely without even trying, with his eyes and his hips and his music and his strange command of words, was the real deal. 

Ben believed in people. He had a strong faith in humanity and people’s ability to be kind, decent and good. He hated that some part of him felt suspicious whenever someone he didn’t know approached him because he couldn’t know if they really wanted to get to know him or just latch onto his fame.

His mobile buzzed.

_Sure. Working just now, but I can be there in a couple of hours. M_

‘The little shit,’ Ben murmured fondly. ‘Playing hard to get now?’ He put his phone back in his pocket and went to take a shower. Then he strolled down to the shop, bought pasta, bacon, mince, tomatoes, fresh oregano and a bottle of Italian red and returned home to cook. When Mark arrived, the ragù bolognese was reducing and Ben had just put the pasta in the water.

‘Wow, loving the rugged look,’ said Mark, upon seeing Ben’s now rather messy mop of curls.

‘It’s for the play.’ Ben shrugged. ‘They asked me to grow out a beard for the part, too, but my facial hair growth is. . . unimpressive. So they glue one on every night. And you’re one to talk.’ He pointed to Mark’s hair, which was now blue, verging on turquoise. Mark only grinned.

‘So, this is where you live?’ he said, one eyebrow raised, as he walked into the sitting room.

‘Yup,’ said Ben. ‘Not what you expected?’

‘I dunno,’ Mark admitted. ‘I think I expected somewhere. . . bigger. Fancier. You know. Like an MTV Crib or something.’

‘I moved here when my acting career started to properly take off, about six or seven years ago now,’ said Ben, leading Mark through to the kitchen. ‘I suppose I could afford to move, but I don’t want to. I like it here.’

‘It’s nice,’ said Mark, nodding.

‘Have a seat.’ Ben indicated one of the bar stools by the breakfast bar. ‘Wine?’

‘Yes, please,’ said Mark. He looked around while Ben poured two generous glasses. ‘Smells good.’

‘I realise I didn’t ask. . . Have you eaten?’

Mark shook his head.

‘Good, there’s enough food cooking to feed a small army,’ said Ben with a smile.

Ben was an excellent cook, if he said so himself, and he was liable to. This was no oh-so-English spag bol he’d made. His bolognese was made entirely from scratch, with high quality organic beef, lightly smoked bacon, onion, garlic, finely chopped carrots and celery, fresh tomatoes, freshly ground black pepper, nutmeg, basil, thyme and oregano and a generous helping of decent red wine, plus the secret ingredient of dried lavender flowers. He left it to bubble for at least half an hour, and served it with wholewheat linguine cooked al dente and shredded parmesan.

Mark was in awe. Upon the first bite, he closed his eyes and made a sound not entirely unlike what Ben imagined he might sound like in bed. The thought made him smile.

After dinner, they sat down in the sitting room to finish their wine.

‘Play’s going well, I hear,’ said Mark.

‘It is,’ Ben confirmed with a nod. ‘I love the theatre. There’s nothing like that live feeling, connecting directly with an audience. . . It’s fantastic. No retakes, no safety net, you just have to go for it.’

Mark nodded. ‘Same with live music,’ he said. ‘Recording a song is fun. You can get it just like you want it, over-dub your own voice, stick on effects. . . But it’s not the same as standing on a stage and having people watching you.’

‘Are you in a band?’

‘Not at the moment. I go it solo. Gigs are scarce, though. I need to get my break soon.’

Ben nodded slowly. They sat in silence for a bit, sipping their wine.

‘So,’ said Mark after a few moments, ‘missed me, did you?’

Ben remembered the wording of his text and smiled sheepishly. ‘I was getting really caught up,’ he said. ‘You know, in the reviews and the audience and the whole circus. Feels like talking to you. . . grounds me, somehow.’

Mark raised both eyebrows in astonishment. ‘Really? I do that?’

Ben nodded, looking away, feeling suddenly nervous. This surprised him. He didn’t really get nervous anymore. Not in that way. There was a surge of nervous energy right before going on stage, or just before shooting a difficult scene, but he generally turned that into pure performance power. He was in control of those nerves. These nerves, however, he seemed to have no say over. It felt good, not to be in control. Not to have plans.

Mark set down his wine glass and edged closer. Slowly, hesitantly, he raised his hand to Ben’s cheek and touched it lightly. Ben’s eyes fluttered shut as Mark’s delicate fingers journeyed into his dark locks, stroking and tugging just a little bit. He took Ben’s glass out of his hand, placing it on the coffee table. Ben felt him move closer still, and then his breath was right next to his ear.

‘Is this okay?’ Mark whispered.

Ben nodded. Swallowed. ‘Yeah.’ All the same, he was wholly unprepared for what happened next. Mark kissed him very gently on the cheek, and then he put his arms around him, pulling him close, just hugging him.

It had been a while since anyone had really hugged Ben. He’d been hugged on stage and film, as part of the act, and there had been the buddy-sort of hugs from fellow actors following performances or cool, staged hugs with chat show hosts, but being hugged by another human being just because. . . That had definitely been a while. 

Ben relaxed into Mark’s embrace, putting his arms around him in turn. 

‘You looked like you needed it,’ Mark mumbled into his shoulder.

Ben nodded. ‘I think I did.’

They sat like that for a while, and then Mark pulled back. Ben studied his face, frowning slightly. The boy with the lavender eyes stared back, expression unreadable.

‘What is it you want from me?’ Ben asked after a moment.

Mark cocked his head to one side. ‘What do you mean?’

‘I mean. . . ’ Ben looked away, frowning still. He was unsure of what he wanted to say and how he wanted to say it—a foreign feeling for a man who made his living saying the right things in the right way. ‘I don’t believe you’re just here with me because of who I am.’

‘Of course I am,’ said Mark. Ben looked up abruptly. ‘No, not like that, silly,’ Mark continued. ‘I’m not here because you’re famous, because you’re an actor or because you’re rich. I’m here because of who you _are_.’

‘Which is?’

‘A fucking massively hot, talented, interesting, magnificent human being whom I’d give anything to get to know properly. I wanna get inside your head. I want to know how you tick. And, I admit, your head isn’t the only thing I’d like to get inside.’ He flashed a wicked grin, and Ben laughed outright at the cheesiness of his words. Then he grew serious again, swallowing and looking down at Mark’s hand, resting on his arm. Ben covered it with his own, slightly larger one.

‘I can’t be your boyfriend,’ he said quietly. 

‘Because you’re not gay?’ asked Mark.

‘No,’ said Ben. ‘It’s nothing to do with me, my convictions or my attractions—and I _am_ attracted to you. It’s to do with the business I work in, and the very public life I’m forced to lead. Hollywood may pretend to be liberal and openminded, but if I were to be in an openly homosexual relationship, I might lose everything I’ve worked for. That’s probably selfish, but. . .’ He grimaced, and looked up at Mark’s face. ‘For now, I’m free of paparazzi, no one’s following me around and the gossip about me is just that; gossip. But if I were to. . . be with you, you’d have to be like a dirty little secret and I think you deserve better than that.’

Mark shifted a bit next to him, and then he was sitting on his knees on the floor, looking up into Ben’s face, the look in his eyes earnest and intense. ‘Let me make my own decisions,’ he said quietly. ‘I’m not asking you to be my boyfriend. I’m not asking you to forsake all others, or even to date me. I’m not asking for birthdays and Christmases and meet the fucking family. Okay? I’m just—’ He bit his lower lip, glancing away for a moment. Then he met Ben’s gaze again, his eyes full of determination. ‘I’m done window shopping. I’d like to try you on. See if you’re my size. Maybe borrow you for a bit.’

Ben smiled, in spite of himself. He really did have a way with words, this kid. He cupped Mark’s face in his hands and leaned forward to kiss his forehead, but Mark moved his head and captured his lips instead. This time, the kiss was not gentle or hesitant. It was hot and demanding, and any and all protests Ben might have had ( _he’s so young, he’s a man, we have feelings for each other and I can’t give him what he really wants_ ) died on his lips, and were swallowed whole by Mark’s insisting mouth. 

Before he knew it, Mark was in his lap, hands in his hair, tongue deep inside his mouth, probing, tasting, and Ben’s body seemed to be acting of its own accord. He slipped his arms around Mark’s waist, gripping at his shirt, and then Mark was nibbling on his lower lip and Ben released an indecent sounding moan. Mark kissed a trail from his mouth to his neck and up to his earlobe, which he took into his mouth and sucked on, and Ben closed his eyes, lost to the sensation.

‘Do you have any idea,’ Mark whispered, ‘how long I’ve wanted to do this?’

‘For about as long as I’ve wanted you to, I reckon,’ Ben murmured.

‘And how long’s that?’ 

‘Since you walked up to me at that party. . .’ Ben had dropped his voice to the lowest register it would reach.

‘God, your voice!’ Mark groaned. ‘It’s obscene, like velvet on naked skin. When I’m alone and I want to see you, I look up clips of you on YouTube and just listen to your voice while I get myself off.’

His words sent a shudder through Ben’s body. He felt like knowing this should have freaked him out, but all he could think about just then was the image of Mark lying on his bed in his tiny flat, pleasuring himself. That thought, combined with the feeling of Mark in his lap, made Ben rock hard. Mark must have felt it because he chuckled.

‘So,’ he whispered, ‘what would you like me to do?’

Ben’s brain was hardly able to form coherent thought, let alone formulate a sentence at this point. He swallowed twice, as if that would make him better able to think. It did not. So all he managed was, ‘Want. You.’

‘Yeah, I think we’ve established that,’ Mark murmured, letting his hand drop down between Ben’s legs, palming him through his trousers. ‘But in what way?’

Ben gasped. ‘I. . . You’re the one. . . with experience,’ he panted.

‘Well, what do you like?’

Mark’s hand was making it completely impossible to think at all, so Ben grasped his wrist with a low growl and held it still. ‘You do realise that asking a straight man what he likes in bed is a bit like asking a blind man what his favourite colour is,’ he said, with great effort. ‘Shagging for me has mostly involved inserting my cock somewhere and thrusting until I come. I’m not so. . . sophisticated. With a woman, it’s mostly about her, as it should be since she’s harder to get off.’

‘You said you’d been with men before,’ Mark reminded him.

‘Yeah, at uni. I can’t remember what we did then. . .’

Mark smirked. ‘Well, then. More fun for me.’

* * *

Ben didn’t often curse in conversation. He wasn’t opposed to it, and he would do it if it seemed fitting or appropriate, but he wasn’t the type to use such language indiscriminately, as filler or punctuation. He might have been when he was younger, but being in the public eye for so long broke the habit.

Now, however, in his own home, on his bed, with Mark nestled between his legs, sucking and biting at his nipples while his hand snaked its way down his stomach towards the lining of his pants, profanities flowed from Ben’s lips like a river. When the hand finally reached its destination, Ben was squirming under his touch, words failing him, dissolving into sounds of pleasure.

Mark pulled Ben’s pants down to his knees, kissing a trail down his stomach before pausing, looking up at Ben with mischievous eyes. ‘Do you want it?’ he asked softly. Ben nodded vigorously. He didn’t think he’d wanted anything more intensely in his life. ‘Ask me for it,’ Mark said.

‘Want your mouth,’ Ben managed. ‘Fuck, please. . .’

Mark obliged, with enthusiasm, and Ben threw his head back with a grateful sigh. Mark teased and played, before taking him in to the hilt, and Ben thought that this must be what heaven felt like. Heaven was Mark’s mouth and hands, his lidded eyes looking at Ben through his lashes, and his voice sending vibrations through Ben’s body as he made small sounds, as though he were enjoying administering this treatment as much as Ben enjoyed receiving it. This was, of course, impossible, because no other feeling in the world could match what Ben was currently feeling. There was no felicity superior to this. 

Heaven. 

When he felt his climax coming on, Ben reluctantly pulled out of Mark’s mouth. He didn’t want it to be over. He propped himself up on an elbow and reached down to cup Mark’s cheek, pulling him to him to kiss him deeply, tasting himself on his lips. Mark lay down on top of him, hands roaming across Ben’s naked body. Ben wanted very much to reciprocate, but he knew he wouldn’t be able to make Mark feel as good as Mark had just made him.

All the same, Ben ran his hands down Mark’s slim torso (he was leaner than he would have expected, though the contours of his ribs were clearly visible) and pushed his pants down to reveal his cock, which was already rock hard and leaking. He stroked it slowly, and Mark gasped.

‘Oh, Ben. . .’ Mark moaned. ‘Please. . . Will you fuck me?’

Ben groaned deep in his throat. ‘You’re asking me that?’ he murmured. ‘Really? Jesus fucking Christ, I’m aching for it!’

Mark smirked down at him. ‘I know,’ he said. ‘Wanted to hear you say it. Say it again?’

‘I want to fuck you, Mark.’ Ben let his voice drop in the way he knew Mark liked so well. ‘I want to bury myself in you, bollocks deep. I want to shape you on the inside. We’ll do it any way you like, hard, gently, you can ride me, I don’t care, I just _need_ you.’ He should have felt silly saying things like that, but he somehow did not.

Mark closed his eyes, a visible shudder going through his body as Ben spoke. ‘Have you got condoms? Lube?’

‘Nightstand,’ said Ben.

It was better than Ben could ever have imagined. As Mark lowered himself onto him, Ben cried out in pure ecstasy. The boy knew what he was doing. A seasoned veteran, graduated summa cum laude, with emphasis on ‘cum’, from the University of Ride-you-until-your-eyes-roll-up. Ben grasped his hips tightly, thrusting up into him, loving how Mark threw his head back, moaned, cried out, swore loudly. Ben had been right; some of the sounds of pleasure Mark was making were remarkably similar to the ones he’d made at dinner.

It was rough and fast. That was okay. They were both ready, very ready. And then it was over, and Mark collapsed on top of him. Ben caressed the back of his neck with gentle fingers.

‘I want to do more for you next time,’ he murmured.

‘Oh?’ said Mark breathlessly. ‘So there will be a next time?’

‘Of course there will bloody well be a next time!’ Ben growled. ‘Not letting you just disappear. . .’

‘I have no intention to,’ said Mark, and Ben kissed his neck softly.

‘Oh, hey, you said something about a new song in your texts,’ said Ben.

Mark propped himself up on his elbow and looked down at him. ‘Yeah, but I haven’t got my guitar.’

‘I have a guitar,’ said Ben. ‘In the study. Play me your new song?’

‘Yeah, I don’t know about you, but I don’t think I can actually move for a little while,’ said Mark, flashing a wicked grin. ‘God, feels like you’re still in me. . .’

‘That can be arranged,’ said Ben with a smirk. ‘I’ll need half an hour or so, though. I’m an old man.’

Mark laughed and leaned down to kiss him. It was gentle and sweet, and Ben sighed happily.

‘Just sing it, then,’ he murmured when Mark pulled away.

Mark smiled. ‘All right.’ He cleared his throat and put on a theatrical voice. ‘Ladies and jellyspoons, this is a new tune called _Gold_.’

Then he sang, softly. He forgot the lyrics a couple of times and just hummed the melody instead. ‘ _Eyes of gold gleam like sunlight on the sea. A galaxy of colour means you’re far away from me. But I wonder, hmm hmm hmm, if you were free maybe you’d take the time. . . The time to let me in to see what’s going on in your mind, what genius I might find, but as it is you’re somewhere out of reach, but not out of sight. . . Because want travels faster than light, and what I want I think you know. I want you to dig a hole in me and make a home, somewhere you can be safe and whole and never alone, no never alone. . .’_

‘That’s beautiful,’ said Ben softly. 

‘I don’t have to embarrass myself by explaining it, do I?’

Ben shook his head, smiling. He blinked back a tear and cleared his throat. ‘This is dangerous,’ he said sombrely. ‘If that’s how you feel. . .’ He trailed off.

‘Are you trying to tell me you don’t?’ said Mark, cocking an eyebrow.

Ben let out a deep sigh. ‘This is bad.’

‘Why?’

‘Because it can never work.’

Mark shook his head. ‘No use thinking about it. Can’t we just. . . see what happens? You know, just live?’

Ben sighed, and then opened his mouth to speak, but before he could utter a consonant, Mark’s lips were on his again, and his words died away, replaced with want and desire and longing. When Mark pulled away again, his eyebrow was raised in challenge. Ben did not rise to meet it. Instead, he pushed Mark off him enough that he could turn out the lights and settled against him, arm draped over his waist, and drifted off to sleep.

Whatever this was, whatever it was becoming, it felt right.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The bolognese recipe is my own. It's very tasty.


	3. The Longest Week

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Ben and Mark really enjoy each other's company.

When he awoke just before eight o’clock the next morning, Ben found a note on the pillow next to his.

_Had to go to work. Talk later. x_

Ben picked the note up, frowning. Then he heard the shower start in the bathroom and smiled.

He got out of bed and padded naked over to the bathroom door. He tested the handle and, finding the door unlocked, quietly slipped inside. 

Ben could see the shadow of Mark’s slim frame through the shower curtain. He snuck up and pulled the curtain aside, stepping into the shower behind him.

From this vantage point, Ben had a good view of the tattoos he had barely had time to register the night before. Curved lines that snaked out across Mark’s shoulder blades and upper arms, forming patterns, not quite tribal, not quite celtic, just organic, somehow. Here, the pattern formed something like a skull, there a butterfly, but only when looked at from a certain angle.

‘Thought you could just sneak out, did you?’ he murmured, slipping his arms around Mark’s waist. Mark jumped a little.

‘Jesus! Sneak up on a bloke, why don’t you?’ he said. ‘Sorry. Didn’t want to wake you. And I really do have—ah!—work . . .’

Ben had run his hand up Mark’s chest, brushing his nipple with his fingers, causing it to stiffen. ‘Where do you work?’ he asked softly, squeezing the nipple. His lips brushed the back of Mark’s neck as he spoke.

‘Café . . . in Camden,’ said Mark breathlessly. ‘Just temporarily . . . filling in for a friend.’

‘When do you start?’ Ben slipped his other hand slowly down Mark’s stomach.

‘Ah . . . ’ Mark gasped. ‘Er, at nine.’

‘Plenty of time,’ said Ben huskily. ‘This doesn’t have to take long.’

‘But—oh fuck—tube takes a while during rush hour.’

‘I’ll give you money for a cab,’ Ben insisted.

Mark scoffed. ‘How would that look, me arriving in a cab?’

‘I don’t care.’ Ben took Mark in his hand, and the other arched his back against him. ‘Let me do this for you. I can feel how much you want it.’

‘Likewise,’ Mark groaned. He tried to reach behind him, but Ben pushed his hand away.

‘No,’ he said. ‘This is about you. I can take care of myself after you’ve gone.’

Mark whimpered. ‘I don’t think you understand how hot the idea of you getting yourself off is to me . . . ’

Ben chuckled, his voice morning deep, and he felt a shudder go through Mark. ‘Go ahead. Think about it,’ he murmured in Mark’s ear. ‘Think about me pleasuring myself while thinking of you. And then think about how, the next time we’re together, I’m going to take care of you. I’m going to spoil you. You won’t have to lift a finger, just lie there and take it. And then I’ll have you, slowly, until you scream.’

Mark threw back his head as he came, crying out through gritted teeth. Ben held him as he rode it out, drawing ragged breaths. Mark turned around, putting his arms around Ben and kissing him deeply. Then he buried his face in Ben’s shoulder.

‘I should go,’ he mumbled.

‘Yeah,’ said Ben, stroking his hair.

‘When’s your next night off?’ asked Mark, looking up at him. He didn’t ask when he could see him again, simply assuming that it would be the next time Ben was free. That made Ben smile. And of course he was right.

‘Monday,’ said Ben.

‘You don’t get much free time, do you?’

Ben shook his head. ‘Six shows per week, Monday nights off.’ He kissed Mark softly. ‘Now, get out of here, go make some money.’

Mark nodded. ‘Don’t work too hard,’ he said. ‘I’ll call you.’

‘Not if I call you first,’ said Ben, smiling.

* * *

He felt somewhat like a school boy. Monday could not come fast enough, and Ben spent every waking moment when he wasn’t acting with his mind wholly occupied by the boy with the ever changing hair colour. The texts came every day now, and Ben sent as many as he received. They spoke on the phone a few times, too. 

When the week was up, Mark texted the words, _Coming over. That okay?_

And all Ben could think to respond was, _Yes._

They dispensed with no words, on each other almost the second the front door was shut. They didn’t make it to the bedroom. They didn’t even make it out of the hall. They barely had time to get their pants down. Ben crowded Mark against the wall, kissing him deeply, and by mutual, silent consensus they got off like teenagers. It only took a couple of minutes, and then they were panting against the wall, their stomachs covered in semen.

Mark cleared his throat. ‘Well,’ he said breathlessly. ‘That’s a way to say hello.’

Ben laughed. ‘Sorry,’ he murmured. ‘Not really how I meant to . . . God, I’ve missed you!’

‘I’ve missed you too,’ Mark mumbled, smiling crookedly. ‘Erm . . . We should get cleaned up.’

‘Yeah.’

‘We could . . . take a shower?’

Ben smiled. ‘Sure. But I don’t think I’ll be fully recharged for a while.’

‘Dirty old man!’ Mark chided him with a smirk. ‘Who said anything about that?’

They showered together, washing each other’s backs, and Ben was struck by how normal and natural it all felt. He traced the winding patterns of Mark’s tattoos with his finger tips. ‘What do they mean?’ he asked.

‘The tattoos?’ Mark shrugged his shoulders. ‘Does everything have to mean something? I have friends whose tattoos symbolise the year they got their lives turned around, or their families, or dead loved ones, or the deep, dark torment of their souls!’ He enunciated the last part theatrically and wiggled his fingers in the air. ‘I just wanted something that looked nice and that wasn’t quite like what anyone else had and that was . . . _me_.’

‘Fair enough,’ said Ben. ‘I considered tattoos when I was in my teens, but it’s lucky I never went for it. They’re a pain to cover up when you’re acting.’

The blue of Mark’s hair was fading now, the lather of the shampoo taking on a slightly turquoise tint as Ben massaged his scalp.

‘Doesn’t hold very well, this dye,’ he commented.

‘Hard to find colours like this that do,’ Mark replied with a shrug. ‘Most wash out within a couple of weeks. Longer if you bleach first, but my hair is pretty light to begin with and bleach is so icky. . .’

Ben chuckled. ‘That why you change it so often?’

‘I like change,’ said Mark. ‘Change keeps things interesting. I get bored easily.’

Ben chewed his lip, absently. Like the cursing and the nerves, it was a habit he had long since broken, but somehow broken habits seemed to go unbroken when he was around Mark. He hesitated before saying, ‘Think you’ll grow bored of me?’

Mark turned to face him, grinning. ‘Not bloody likely!’ he laughed. ‘You’re not getting rid of me that easy, mister.’ He stood on tip-toe and leaned in for a kiss. Ben returned it, hungrily. He could feel his arousal returning. That was quick.

‘Rinse the shampoo out,’ he murmured. ‘I want you in my bed in ten minutes.’

‘Why, Mr. Connor, I like it when you take charge!’ said Mark with a grin.

Ben stepped out of the shower and towelled off quickly. Then he went out into the bedroom, checked the nightstand for condoms and lube, straightened the bedding and, after some internal debate, lit a couple of candles.

He felt nervous again, like a teenager preparing for his first time. What was it about Mark that made him feel so . . . naked? 

Then the door to the bathroom opened, and Ben forgot to feel insecure. There stood Mark, hair dripping, stark naked and slightly damp, and Ben thought, not for the first time, that Mark wasn’t _really_ beautiful, but something about him made him drop-dead gorgeous anyway.

Mark stepped over to the bed, eyes never leaving Ben’s, and sat down. He scooted up into the middle of the bed and lay back, licking his lips.

Ben crawled onto the bed on hands and knees, until he was positioned above Mark, legs astride his middle. He brushed a strand of wet, blue hair away from Mark’s forehead and leaned down to kiss him softly.

‘Remember what I promised you?’ he whispered. Mark nodded, slowly. ‘Tell me.’

‘You said you’d,’ Mark cleared his throat, ‘take care of me. That I’d just have to lie there and take it.’

‘Good,’ Ben murmured. ‘Well remembered.’

* * *

Mark was remarkably responsive. Everything Ben did elicited a moan or a whimper, a clenching of the fist, a biting of the lip. His nipples were especially sensitive, and Ben amused himself for a good long while simply squeezing, sucking, biting and blowing at them to see how Mark reacted. 

His cock was sensitive, too, twitching at the slightest provocation. Ben only devoted a few minutes to it, lest he cut their amusement short.

Mark’s arse was what Ben had been most nervous about. The previous week, Mark had more or less prepped himself. Ben very much wanted to know what manner of response he could extract from Mark with his fingers and tongue there, but still hesitated when he got there.

‘You . . . you don’t have to . . . ’ Mark murmured. ‘We can just . . .’

‘I want to,’ Ben interrupted, looking up at him. ‘God, you’re so gorgeous . . .’

Mark laughed. 

‘I mean it!’ Ben said, firmly. ‘Every part of you. So fucking gorgeous, and I just want to know what I can do to you, want to see how I can make you feel . . .’ And with that, he bent his head, letting his tongue get to work. 

The effect was remarkable. Mark moaned and cursed and writhed, toes curling. He was just as sensitive there as everywhere else. When Ben was satisfied with his results, he sat up, reached over Mark and pulled a bottle of lube from the nightstand, squeezing some out onto his finger. 

It didn’t take much coaxing for Mark to open up for him. Nor did it take much digging for Ben to find what he was looking for.

‘Nguh!’ Mark groaned. ‘Oh fuck, fuck shit fuck!’

‘I take it that’s good?’ asked Ben with a smirk and a cocked eyebrow.

‘It’s . . . yeah, very good. Very, very . . . ah!’ Mark’s eyes sprung wide open. ‘Oh, fuck!’ he gasped. 

‘Hasn’t anyone ever done this to you before?’ Ben asked curiously.

‘Not . . . not like this,’ Mark replied breathlessly. ‘Guess I’ve always. . . always been the giving type, you know? With foreplay and oh, _fucking hell_ , how do you even know how to _do_ this?’

Ben shrugged. ‘It’s not so different,’ he said. ‘Find the spot that makes your partner do this—’ he moved his digit a bit, and Mark gasped again, squirming and pushing back against him ‘—and court it until they can barely stand it.’

‘Gah!’ said Mark. 

‘More?’

Mark nodded, his eyes squeezed shut again, and Ben inserted another finger, stretching his opening. Mark threw back his head, cursing loudly again.

‘Good?’ asked Ben.

Mark could do nothing but nod. When he opened his eyes, his pupils were dilated so far his eyes looked almost completely black.

‘Need . . . you!’ he moaned. 

Ben smiled, and obliged.

He went slow, just as he’d promised, angling each thrust to the best of his abilities to brush Mark’s prostate before plunging deep inside. Being inside Mark, thought Ben, was like inserting oneself into a space lined with silk and velvet, soft and tight and gorgeous. Mark’s insides had roughly the texture of rose petals, if one were to fuck a rose until it quivered.

After a while, Ben had Mark turn over on hands and knees, making his thrusts harder and allowing himself to relinquish control a little bit. When Mark came in Ben’s hand, Ben came as well almost at once. He collapsed on top of him, kissing both his shoulder blades softly; first the skull, then a shape that Ben interpreted as a swallow.

‘You okay?’ he asked. Mark pulled a few shuddering breaths before answering.

‘I’m so fucking okay I can’t put into words how okay I am.’ He uttered a breathless laugh. ‘Blimey, Ben . . . That was . . . God, that was one of the most intense experiences of my life!’

Ben felt stupidly proud at hearing this. Somewhere in the back of his brain, a small voice had the presence of mind to ask why he didn’t feel as proud of his accomplishments on stage as he did of fucking a skinny, albeit gorgeous, Camden punk into oblivion, but he ignored it.

He made to pull out, but Mark stopped him.

‘No,’ he said. ‘Stay in there for a little while. I just . . . I like feeling you in there.’

So Ben took his hand instead, and kissed his knuckles, one at a time. Then Mark’s stomach made a grumbly noise.

‘Hungry?’ asked Ben.

‘Yeah.’ Mark sounded surprised. ‘Guess I am . . . Haven’t really eaten much today.’

Ben snorted. ‘Idiot,’ he murmured fondly. ‘No wonder you’re such a skinny bastard . . . I’ll order us some Thai. That okay with you?’

‘Mm,’ said Mark. He winced slightly as Ben pulled out. 

‘Just stay there,’ said Ben. ‘I’ll fetch some tissues.’ He returned with a pack of Kleenex and the menu for the local Thai take-away, handing both to Mark. ‘The Tom Yum soup is gorgeous,’ he said. ‘Also, the chilli and lemongrass beef is really good, and the Satay chicken.’

‘Well, I’m a sucker for good Satay,’ said Mark, sitting up and cleaning himself off. ‘Shit, you’ve got cum stains on the bedspread now,’ he added.

Ben shrugged. ‘It’s washable.’

Mark looked at him, head cocked slightly to one side. ‘Are you really okay with all this?’

‘The Thai food or the cum stains?’ asked Ben.

‘You know what I’m talking about,’ said Mark seriously.

Ben sighed. ‘Yes. But you’re the one who said we shouldn’t dwell on it, remember?’

‘I did,’ Mark acknowledged with a slight nod. ‘I haven’t been very good at following my own advice, though.’

‘Yeah, nor have I.’

‘I have feelings for you.’

‘I know,’ said Ben. ‘I have feelings for you too.’

Mark lay down on his back, pillowing his head on his arms. ‘So, where does that leave us?’

Ben shook his head, looking away. ‘I don’t know. I have no desire to shag anyone but you.’

‘Me neither.’

‘So.’

‘So . . .’

Ben glanced at him. ‘I don’t even know your last name.’

‘Harrison,’ said Mark.

‘Right.’

There was a pause. 

‘Do you think it would be all right,’ asked Ben, ‘Mark Harrison, if, for the purpose of sexual contact, I thought of you as mine?’

Mark chuckled. ‘Yeah,’ he said. ‘I think that would be . . . acceptable.’

‘Good.’

‘Good.’

‘Let’s order some food.’

‘Let’s.’

* * *

‘Favourite band?’

‘Pink Floyd.’

‘Really?’ Mark propped himself up on his elbow, looking down at Ben’s face. ‘I would have thought you’d be into, like . . . I dunno. Something older. Like Duke Ellington or something.’

Ben stared incredulously at him. ‘How ancient do you think I am?’

Mark laughed.

‘What about you?’ Ben countered. ‘What’s _your_ favourite band?’

Mark seemed to consider for a moment. ’Chumbawamba.’

‘That sounds . . . familiar,’ said Ben.

‘You’d probably know them for _Tubthumping_ ,’ said Mark, ‘you know— _I get knocked down, but I get up again!_ —but that song is kind of atypical for them. They played lots of different stuff, but I like their folky stuff best. That and _Give the Anarchist a Cigarette_ —feels like my theme song. Then, when they’d played together for thirty years, they were like, “let’s quit while we’re ahead”, played three shows, the last of which was at some syndicalist youth house in Norway, of all places, chucked in the towel and called it a day.’

Ben chuckled. ‘You’ll have to play me their music some time.’ 

‘Favourite movie, then?’ Mark inquired.

‘Ooh, tough one . . .’ Ben gave it a moment’s thought. ‘It varies with my mood, but . . . Probably _Close Encounters of the Third Kind_.’

Mark expelled a surprised giggle. ‘Isn’t that sort of cheesy?’

‘What, because I’m an actor I’m only allowed to like weird art films? Would you be more comfortable if I had said I loved the work of Stanley Kubrick or Lars Von Trier? I’ll have you know, Stephen Spielberg is a great man.’ Mark laughed and Ben smiled at him. ‘I admit I have a soft spot Quentin Tarantino as well,’ he added as an afterthought. ‘And Peter Jackson.’ He ruffled Mark’s hair. ‘What about you?’

Mark looked away, cheeks flushing slightly. He mumbled something incoherent.

‘What was that?’ asked Ben.

Mark looked at him again, defiantly. ‘ _Singularity Sky_ ,’ he said. 

‘Oh.’ It was Ben’s turn to feel embarrassed.

‘It’s your best work,’ said Mark simply, shrugging. ‘Though I should probably tell you I never actually paid to see it . . . I sort of pirated it.’

Ben smiled earnestly. ‘Thank you,’ he said. ‘Not for the piracy, just for—’

Mark leaned down and placed his lips on Ben’s, kissing him slowly and lazily, and in spite of the three times he’d already gotten off that night, Ben felt the arousal begin in the pit of his stomach. He put his arms around Mark, pulling him down on top of him, and kissed him back. Mark began to move against him almost immediately, eliciting further response.

‘You’re just insatiable, aren’t you?’ Ben murmured as they broke lip contact. ‘Aren’t you—ah!—getting sore?’

‘Don’t care,’ said Mark breathlessly. ‘It’ll be a whole week until next time, right? I just need to . . . stock up on you while I can.’

As it turned out, however, Mark _was_ getting too sore, and they had to make do with their hands. Not that Ben was complaining. Mark’s face when he came, his eyes, his voice, they were just as beautiful no matter how he got there. 

They fell asleep, exhausted, in each other’s arms.


	4. The House with the Rose Coloured Memories

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Ben has dinner with his parents and meets an old friend, and there's an article in The Sun.

The next few weeks passed in much the same way. Monday nights Mark would turn up, sometimes they’d have a meal or a couple of drinks first, and then they would shag like bunnies until they fell away to blissful oblivion. Ben felt like a man a decade younger. Not that thirty-five was any age at all, but it had been a long time since he had engaged in a physical relationship with such reckless abandon, and he didn’t think he’d ever wanted just one person so intensely or so constantly before.

So it was with great regret that he informed Mark, on the evening of the fourth Monday, that they would not be able to do this the following week.

‘Why not?’ Mark asked, sitting up in bed and licking his lip nervously. ‘Have I . . . am I being too—’

‘No!’ Ben interrupted. ‘No, not at all. It’s just . . . My parents have been nagging me to come over for dinner, and I’m running out of excuses. With all the time I’ve been spending in America lately it feels kind of shitty to say no, really . . .’

Mark nodded. ‘No, I get that . . . Where do they live?’

‘Stevenage,’ Ben replied. ‘About half an hour by train.’

‘Could I maybe come over after?’

‘I don’t know how long I’ll be there, really . . . Maybe?’

‘All right.’ Mark looked miserable, and Ben put his arms around him, pulling him close. 

‘I’m sorry,’ Ben murmured. ‘I’ll make it up to you. Only a couple of weeks left of the play now.’

‘Good,’ said Mark.

Ben wasn’t so sure that it was. He had no idea what they would do when the play came to an end and he’d have to get back to shooting films. He had two big shoots lined up for the autumn—one film, to be shot in the States, and several episodes for the next series of _Hathaway_ for ITV. Another film would be released in November, and that would include a press tour, television appearances, photo shoots and all manner of work. For all the six-day work weeks and the rehearsals that had preceded them, the theatre was a nice break from the circus of his every day life. At least he’d have another week off once they finished.

It wasn’t that Ben minded the work. He had always liked keeping himself busy. He was perfectly happy working long days, travelling a lot and having little time off. Other people might have gotten burnt out quickly from the work load he took on, but Ben had never had any such vulnerability.

Now that he had Mark, however—and though no such words had directly been spoken, Ben did consider himself to be in some form of a relationship with the boy—things were very, very different. 

Ben took the train out to Stevenage the following Monday afternoon. Most days he would have taken his car, as he had little opportunity to drive it, but he suspected his parents would want to serve him wine, and it would be a shame to have to decline. His parents’ house was on the eastern edge of the town, close to Box Wood. His mother came out and greeted him on the front steps, hugging him.

‘Benjamin!’ she said happily. ‘It’s so good to see you! How is the play going?’

‘Fine, fine,’ said Ben as he walked inside. ‘It’s going very well. I trust you’ve read the reviews?’

‘Of course we have!’ said his mother. ‘What do you take us for? We’ve decided to come see you on closing night, assuming you can still get us tickets?’

‘Of course!’ said Ben with a grin.

Adelaide Connor was a short but powerfully built woman with thick, sandy blonde hair, a West Yorkshire accent and a no nonsense attitude. She was a music teacher and children’s choir mistress. Her husband, William, was, in contrast, like his son, tall and originally dark-haired, but he was mostly grey now. He had retired as an engineer, though he had at one point also been a moderately successful stage actor. Their home, the home in which Ben had grown up, was modest but very comfortable.

In the kitchen, Ben’s father was hard at work on dinner. He wiped his hands on his apron and gave his son a hug.

‘So,’ he said, patting his shoulder, ‘how’s the love life? Meet anyone special lately?’

Ben rolled his eyes and smiled. ‘Maybe,’ he said.

‘Really?’ said his mother. ‘Perhaps I ought to ring Carol and tell her not to come . . .’

‘Carol?’ Ben frowned.

‘Carol Stevens,’ said his father, returning to his cooking. ‘You remember Carol Stevens, don’t you?’

‘Oh, yeah,’ said Ben. An image of a tall, skinny, freckled girl with fiery red hair and torn jeans flashed into his mind. ‘Of course I do.’ He looked at his mother. ‘Mum . . . Were you going to try to set me up with Carol Stevens?’

‘No!’ said his mother, waving her hand dismissively. ‘Of course not. No, I just ran into her the other day, she asked how you were, so I invited her over for tonight. It’s not like you have Facebook, not easy for old friends to keep up with you in person.’ She studied his face quizzically. ‘So, you’ve met someone, have you?’

‘I suppose,’ said Ben, shrugging one shoulder. He always felt like a school boy under his mother’s gaze.

‘Well?’ she said. ‘What’s she like?’

Ben fidgeted. ‘I . . . I’m not really ready to talk about it yet,’ he tried weakly.

‘Oh, come off it!’ his mother scoffed. ‘Can you blame me for being interested? You haven’t had a girlfriend in, what, six or seven years?’

‘I haven’t got a girlfriend _now_ ,’ Ben pointed out. ‘I’ve just . . . met someone. Someone I like. But it’s not really serious, and I don’t know if it ever will be, so . . .’ He trailed off. Then he clapped his hands together, turning to his father, who was painstakingly measuring up his herbs and spices. ‘Dad! Anything I can do?’

‘Salad,’ came the response. ‘Lettuce, cucumber, cherry tomatoes, spring onions. Bottom drawer in the fridge.’ William Connor while cooking was not a man to be trifled with. The very antithesis to his son, who did everything by eye measurement and gut feeling, the elder Mr. Connor never deviated from his recipes, and always knew exactly what he was doing next. ‘You can make the vinaigrette, too, if you promise not to overdo the mustard.’

Ben laughed. ‘No, I think I’ll leave that up to you. You nearly murdered me last time I got it wrong.’

Just then the door bell rang, and a few minutes later, Carol Stevens stepped into the kitchen followed by Ben’s mother.

‘Hello, Benjamin,’ she said, smiling. ‘Lord, it’s been a while, hasn’t it?’

‘Carol!’ Ben put down the knife with which he had been chopping cherry tomatoes in half, and went to kiss her cheek. ‘How are you? What have you been up to?’

‘Fine, thanks,’ said Carol. ‘I’m in paediatrics.’

‘Oh, fantastic! Love kids!’ said Ben, perhaps a bit too enthusiastically. He felt oddly uncomfortable, rather certain now that his mother really _had_ meant to set him up with Carol. A few months ago he might have rolled with it. Carol had grown up well. She had always been sort of pretty, but now she was verging on gorgeous, and they had at one point been quite close. He would have, at the very least, taken her out a few times, but that wasn’t an option anymore. Now, all he could think was, _She’s not Mark,_ and that was all he needed to know to be absolutely certain that he was not interested.

_Oh, hell, I am falling so hard . . ._

* * *

‘That was really fantastic, Dad,’ said Ben, wiping his mouth on a napkin.

‘There’s dessert, too,’ said his father, getting up and turning towards the kitchen.

‘Are you trying to fatten me up?’ asked Ben. ‘I’m perfectly healthy, you know, I need to look this way for my part! At the end I’m meant to be imprisoned and emaciated.’ He made to get up to help clear the plates away, but his mother put a hand on his shoulder.

‘No, no, you stay here and entertain our guest,’ she said. ‘Have some more wine!’ Then she started gathering the plates.

Ben smiled and shook his head. He picked up the wine bottle and raised his eyebrows at Carol in question.

‘Oh! Yes, please.’ He filled both their glasses with what remained in the bottle. Carol picked up her glass and took a sip. ‘So,’ she said. ‘No need to ask what _you’ve_ been up to. Been a busy little bee, haven’t you?’

Ben chuckled. ‘Yes, I suppose I have. Especially these past couple of years.’

‘I’ve been following you career, of course,’ said Carol with a nod. ‘Hard not to, with your face plastered across every billboard for the past three months. You know, before this latest PR debacle I had quite forgotten to think about you for nearly a year . . . Since the last series of _Hathaway_ ended.’

‘Good for you,’ said Ben, with a smirk. ‘I have it on good authority that I’m annoyingly unforgettable.’

Carol laughed. ‘Oh, that is bad!’ She had another sip of wine. ‘Truer than you’d think, though. I made the mistake of mentioning to a coworker that I used to know you. She pretty much lost her shit. Practically begged me to get her your autograph. Had to remind her that I said “used to”, and that I’d hardly seen you in, what, a decade?’

‘Has it been that long?’

‘It has. You know, it’s scary how obsessed some people—especially women,‘ she took another sip, ‘especially women of a certain _age_ —get with you. My coworker’s forty.’

Ben shook his head and smiled. ‘I could write out an autograph for her if you like.’

‘She would literally die. Have a heart attack and expire. Bless her!’ Carol grinned.

Ben gazed at her for a moment. ‘You haven’t changed a bit,’ he said softly.

‘You have,’ said Carol.

‘Oh?’

‘Not at first glance, but there’s something . . . I expect it would be hard not to, life you lead.’

Ben took a sip of his wine and grimaced. ‘I try not to let it get to me.’

‘How’s that working out for you?’

‘Not very well, until recently,’ Ben confessed.

‘What happened? You find something to ground you?’ Carol cocked her head to one side. ‘Some _one_?’

Ben smiled, looking away.

‘You _have_!’ Carol exclaimed. ‘Oh, do tell!’

‘Haha, no,’ said Ben, licking his lips. ‘Already had this conversation with Mum and Dad today. I’m not telling.’

‘Why not?’ Carol pouted. 

‘Because a gentleman doesn’t kiss and tell,’ said Ben, still smiling. ‘Because I don’t know if it’ll work out yet, so we’re keeping it on the down-low, that’s why.’

‘Well,’ said Carol, ‘if it doesn’t work out, you can always have my coworker.’

Ben laughed.

‘When was the last time you had a proper girlfriend, anyway?’

‘Oh, God . . . Ages.’ Ben ran a hand through his hair. ‘I don’t date other actors, you know. That much ego in one room can only lead to disaster. But dating, for want of a better word, _regular_ women has been . . . difficult. Turns out a lot of them were more in love with one of my on-screen characters than they were with me.’

Carol smiled. ‘I used to have _such_ a crush on you, you know.’ This caught Ben by surprise.

‘Really?’ he asked.

‘No, you dunce!’ Carol grinned and kicked him under the table. ‘Back when we were friends you were awkward and gawky and too tall for your body.’ 

‘Oh, says you, who had legs up to your armpits, frizzy hair and mosquito bites for tits!’ Ben shot back with a smirk.

‘See?’ said Carol, rolling her eyes. ‘Totally conceited! Your girlfriend isn’t doing a very good job of grounding you.’ She stuck out her tongue at him. ‘I think your mum was fixing to set us up, though.’

‘You noticed that too?’

‘Well, if you ever date someone you can’t be seen with, I can always act as a cover,’ said Carol, draining her glass.

Ben just smiled, taking another sip of his wine.

‘Wait . . . _are_ you dating someone you can’t be seen with?’ Carol leaned across the table, studying his face in much the same way as his mother tended to. ‘Are you seeing someone married?’

Ben laughed out loud at this. ‘No, I’m not seeing someone married!’ he said. ‘I’m seeing someone . . . complicated.’

Carol shrugged, leaning back in her seat again. ‘Well, as long as she makes you happy.’

Ben nodded. ‘Yeah.’

* * *

In the taxi on his way home from King’s Cross, Ben switched on his mobile, which had been off during dinner, to find two missed calls and a text from Mark. The text simply read, _How was dinner?_ and had been sent about an hour previously. Ben tried to call back, but it went straight to voicemail.

When he disembarked the cab in Soho and walked towards the entrance to his building, it had begun to drizzle. Ben first only noticed the figure sitting on the ground next to the entrance out of the corner of his eye, but as he reached the front door, the figure stirred, and Ben looked down at it.

He blinked. ‘Mark?’

‘Hey.’ Mark put out the cigarette he’d been smoking in a puddle before meeting his gaze. He exhaled a puff of smoke. ‘How was dinner?’

‘Er, fine,’ said Ben. ‘What are you doing here? Have you been here long?’

Mark shrugged, struggling to get up. ‘A while. Just thought I’d—’ Ben reached for his hand and pulled him to his feet, ‘—wait for you here, since my mobile ran out of battery. Thanks. God, my legs are stiff . . .’ He stretched his back, groaning loudly.

‘If you’d gone home you could have just charged it,’ said Ben, but he smiled.

‘Yeah, but then I would probably have fallen asleep and missed out on seeing you.’ Mark entwined his fingers with Ben’s as Ben pulled his keys out of his pocket with his other hand to unlock the door. ‘What time is it, anyway?’

‘Half eleven.’ Ben let go of Mark’s hand and ran his fingers through his green hair. He must have dyed it in the past week, because the last time he’d seen him it had been washed out blue. It was slightly wet from the rain. ‘You’re lucky it’s summer, or you’d catch a cold,’ he remarked.

‘Yes, _Mum_!’ said Mark with a smirk. ‘So, are we going inside or staying out here in the pleasant weather?’

‘Inside,’ Ben murmured. ‘Need to get you out of these wet clothes and into my bed.’

‘Mm, I like the sound of that,’ said Mark with his crooked smile, and they went inside.

* * *

Ben woke up on Saturday, feeling oddly nervous. Or, perhaps not nervous, but there was a sort of light, wiggly feeling in his stomach. Tonight was the final night of _The Crucible_. His parents were coming to see him perform, and after tonight it would be a long time before he’d have to don the mask of John Proctor again. More importantly, after tonight he would have an entire week to spend however he pleased, and he knew instinctively that the only way he wanted to spend it was with Mark, preferably naked in bed, only leaving the bedroom to eat fabulous food he had mostly denied himself while keeping up his skinny, emaciated appearance for the part. 

In his next film he would be playing a soldier and would have to beef up considerably. He was not looking forward to all the time he’d have to spend at the gym between read-throughs once he got to the States. He’d been every other day or so during the last couple of weeks in the West End as well, and would continue for the next week to begin building some proper muscle mass, but he had a far more rigorous schedule to look forward to in the coming weeks.

The telephone rang just after noon, and Ben went to answer it. It was Alice.

‘I don’t want you to be alarmed, but . . . you should probably check The Sun. I’m texting you a link.’ As she said it, Ben’s mobile buzzed. He pulled it out of his pocked and sat down on his bed.

The article featured a less than flattering picture of Ben, and the title, _Pretty, witty and gay? Benny’s secret male lover_.

For a moment, Ben could do nothing but stare. How had they found out? How had anyone at all found out?

‘Ben?’ said Alice. ‘You there?’

‘Yes, I’m reading,’ said Ben softly.

_The star of ITV’s_ Hathaway _and sci-fi blockbuster_ Singularity Sky _, due to make his last performance as John Proctor in_ The Crucible _in the West End tonight, may be facing a witch hunt of his own soon. Rumours are circulating the blogosphere that Benjamin Connor (35) is involved with a pretty, young . . . man._

‘I have no idea where they’re getting this,’ Alice continued, ‘but Harry’s in a right state trying to draft a statement to deny it.’

‘Alice . . .’

‘I wouldn’t take this too seriously, this is The Sun we’re talking about, but I did think you should know. This sort of libel—’

‘Alice, listen—’

‘What?’

‘It’s—it isn’t . . .’

‘True? Of course not!’

‘No, I mean,’ Ben swallowed, ‘I mean it isn’t libel.’

There was a brief silence.

‘What . . . what are you saying?’ asked Alice slowly.

Ben put his mobile down on his nightstand and ran a hand through his hair, puffing out a sigh. ‘I . . . I have been involved in a . . . _relationship_ with another man for some weeks now.’ As he said it, the fact hit him full in the face. It was out. Somehow it was out, and there was no way of putting it back in. And another thing hit him equally hard: He hadn’t told anyone about his relationship with Mark. Not a single soul. Which meant that the information must have come from Mark. He felt suddenly sick.

‘Oh,’ said Alice. ‘I, erm . . . I mean, I’m happy for you, if this is . . . But, Ben, who is this person?’

Ben shook his head. ‘His name is Mark Harrison. He’s just someone who snuck into a party I was at and gave me his number. I . . . I thought he . . .’ He trailed off. Cleared his throat. Fell silent.

‘You think . . . You think he went to the press?’ asked Alice.

‘What other explanation is there?’ Ben murmured. ‘Has to be . . .’

He heard Alice take a deep breath on the other end of the line. ‘Harry’s gonna want to talk to you about this.’

‘I know,’ Ben replied. ‘Tell him to call me in an hour. No, two. Something I need to sort out.’

‘All right,’ said Alice. ‘Ben . . . I’m sorry.’

‘Me too.’

He wanted to scream, or cry, or be sick. Instead, he put his phone in his pocket, stood up and went to put on his shoes. A minute later he was out the door, hailing a cab.

He had to knock a few times before he could hear footsteps on the other side of the door. The door was pulled open, and a sleepy looking Mark looked up at him, astonishment evident in his face. Then he smiled happily. ‘Well, this is a surprise. To what do I owe the pleasure?’

Ben did not smile back. Instead he pushed past Mark into the tiny flat. He pulled up his mobile with the Sun article still showing and handed it to Mark without a word.

Mark frowned at him, but took the phone. His expression turned from puzzlement to shock as he read, and Ben thought bitterly, _He should be the one with a BAFTA, he’s a better actor than I am._

‘Well?’ he said at last. Mark looked up at him.

‘Well, what?’ he said.

‘I haven’t told anyone about us,’ said Ben. ‘That leaves you.’

‘You—’ Mark stared at him, his expression one of incredulity. ‘You don’t believe _I_ have anything to do with this?’

‘If you can offer some other explanation I’ll happily listen,’ said Ben, coldly.

‘I haven’t—I didn’t go to the press!’ Mark’s voice rose in pitch. ‘How could you even think that? I—’

‘They all warned me about this, you know,’ said Ben, cutting him off. ‘They said not to date people outside the business, that nothing good would come of it, that you never know if they’re for real or if they are just after their fifteen minutes of fame. I never believed them. I never for one second believed that you might be the kind of person who would—’

‘Well, clearly you did!’ Mark spoke over him. ‘Or you wouldn’t be so quick to snap to this judgment now, would you? For fuck’s sake, Ben, when have I ever given you reason to doubt me?’

‘I don’t know anything about you!’ Ben snapped.

‘You know more about me than pretty much anyone else in the world!’ Mark retorted. ‘Believe what you like, but I haven’t held anything back! I have told you everything I could think to tell you about myself. I’ve bared my fucking soul to you!’

Ben gave out a short, humourless laugh. ‘Then explain to me how they found out.’

‘How the fuck should I know?’ Mark replied, his voice gaining in volume. He folded his arms across his chest. ‘Wild guess? Shot in the dark? Maybe someone saw us. A cabbie. The mailman. The guy who delivers Thai food. Who the bollocks knows? But it wasn’t me!’

Mark’s body was tense, defensive. He stood his ground, bare feet planted a good bit apart. Ben squared his jaw, meeting his gaze with fierce, angry determination. Then he looked away.

‘I have to go. My publicist will be calling me in a bit, I need to work out what to tell him.’ He turned his back on Mark, taking a few steps towards the door.

‘Hang on a minute!’ Mark took three long strides and grabbed him by the arm, pulling him back around to face him. ‘You can’t just come here and accuse me and then just walk away!’

‘Watch me,’ said Ben, putting as much ice into the words as he could muster, summoning forth the darkness in his voice, the one he reserved for the stage or the camera, for villains and anti-heroes. Mark released his arm, taking a step back, and Ben turned away again.

‘Ben,’ said Mark weakly. ‘Please . . . Wait.’

Ben did not.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The title of Ben's ITV crime drama, _Hathaway_ , was suggested by boyfriend. The name came from Lewis, the spin-off from Morse, in which Hathaway is to Lewis what Lewis was to Morse. However, Ben Connor bears no resemblance to Laurence Fox who plays Hathaway, nor is Ben's Hathaway meant to be the same character.


	5. The Secret in a Photograph

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Ben forgets a line and realises his mistake.

‘Talk to me, Ben.’ Harry’s voice sounded tired and haggard. ‘What’s going on?’

Ben pinched the bridge of his nose, leaning back in his chair a little, gripping the receiver perhaps a bit tighter than necessary. ‘How much did Alice tell you?’ he asked.

‘Not much,’ said Harry. ‘I need you to tell me everything.’

‘I don’t even know where to start . . .’ Ben let out a puff of air.

‘Start at the beginning,’ Harry prompted.

So Ben did. He told him about Catherine’s party, about the note with the phone number, about spending all that time thinking about Mark when he was in America. About coming home and finding his number on his desk and calling on a whim. About going to his flat. Being kissed. Attending rehearsals for _The Crucible_ and wanting to see Mark again. He held back on the details, but other than that, he told Harry everything. When he was finished, Harry was quiet for a long moment. When he spoke his voice was soft and without judgment.

‘You should have told me from the start,’ he said. ‘This is exactly the sort of thing I’m here for.’

‘I know,’ said Ben. ‘God, I know, I don’t know what I was thinking . . . I just . . . I never thought he would go to the press.’

‘Are you certain that’s what happened?’

‘. . . No.’

‘I’m looking into it,’ Harry continued. ‘It’s hard to be sure where a rumour like this comes from, but I’ve got people on it, searching the fan sites and blogs and twitter. There are rumours of a photograph, but if there is one we haven’t found it yet.’

There was another brief silence. 

‘What do you want to tell the press?’ asked Harry.

‘I don’t know,’ said Ben. ‘Feels like if we lie to them when they already know it’ll just fan the flames.’

‘It’ll get the LGBTQ on your back, as well, in case you ever _do_ want to come out,’ Harry reminded him. ‘Withholding is one thing. Actively lying is quite another. On the other hand, you risk harming your career if you admit to it. _The King’s Man_ is such a huge opportunity for you. That kind of romantic lead in a historical drama—’

‘You don’t think they’d sack me?’ Ben frowned. ‘We start filming in just a couple of weeks. Surely they won’t have time to find someone else?’

‘Probably not,’ said Harry. ‘But the studio won’t be happy. A film like this done well is a shoe-in for the Oscars, but you’re unlikely to even be nominated as a gay man.’

‘But I’m _not_ a gay man!’ Ben growled irritably. ‘All these bloody labels, they drive me insane . . .’

’Whether you’re gay or bisexual or what won’t matter to the old greybeards at the Academy, and you know it,’ said Harry. ‘Then there’s _Country Sunsets_ coming out in November, which should be getting at least one nomination at both the Academy Awards and the Golden Globes. You don’t want the press tour for that to be overshadowed by this mess.’

Ben groaned, closing his eyes and leaning his head back. ‘I know . . .’ He sighed. ‘How long can you keep a lid on this?’

‘If you don’t talk to any press, maybe until Monday. So far it’s just The Sun, but as soon as anything even remotely like evidence surfaces, The Daily Mail will be on this too and then there’s no stopping it. I’ll try to give you some time to figure out what you want to do, but I’ll need to know by tomorrow night. I’m drafting a few possible statements. I’ll e-mail them over when they’re done so you can have a look, all right?’

‘Yeah,’ said Ben. ‘All right.’ He stood up, stretching his back. ‘I’ve got to get ready, need to be at the theatre in an hour.’ He paused. ‘Thank you, Harry. Really. I’m sorry for the headaches.’

Harry’s voice was gentle. ‘Try not to worry about it. We’ll talk later.’

* * *

It was the first time for as long as Ben could currently remember that he had forgotten a line on stage. He always became his characters, fully and without doubt, when he stepped out onto a stage in costume. But just then, with Deputy Governor Danforth staring down at him from his high seat, he was not John Proctor at all. He wasn’t even Benjamin Connor, the actor, but simply Ben.

‘Your wife, you say, is an honest woman?’

Ben blinked. Swallowed. Racked his brains for the appropriate line. Where were they? Which page? What came next?

‘I . . .’ He licked his lips. 

Then John Proctor straightened his back, looked the Governor in the eye and said, ‘In her life, sir, she have never lied. There are them that cannot sing, and them that cannot weep—my wife cannot lie.’

And then the play went on, and only someone who knew the script by heart or had seen the play a hundred times would have noticed, but Ben knew and it made him uneasy. _There are them that cannot sing, and them that cannot weep—Benjamin Connor cannot step out of character,_ he thought bitterly when the scene was ended.

As far as final performances go, it was a good one, in spite of Ben’s mistake. They got a lasting standing ovation, and there were flowers being given out, and they pulled their director on stage and applauded the hell out of him, and it could not have been a more perfect ending. Not that it was any kind of real ending, of course. They had already been commissioned to do six more weeks after Christmas, due to the play’s enormous popularity, exceeding even that of the Royal Shakespeare Company’s iconic production less than a decade previously. He wondered, as he stood there, how that would change if his relationship with Mark became public knowledge. 

His parents were already waiting for him in the dressing room by the time he made it back there, with hugs and kisses and flowers. 

‘Oh, you were wonderful, sweetheart!’ said his mother fondly. ‘Simply wonderful!’

‘Thank you. Thank you both.’ Ben smiled at them.

‘Too bad you’ve got these vicious rumours in The Sun putting a dampener on things, eh?’ said his father. Ben looked at him, head cocked to one side.

‘How are they vicious?’ he asked. 

‘Oh!’ said his father. ‘No! I only meant—’

‘I know,’ said Ben and shook his head, smiling. ‘But you see, the truth is . . .’ He hesitated, but as usual it seemed as though his mother could read his mind.

Her eyes widened. ‘You mean . . . ?’ She stared at her son for a moment, mouth agape. Then she shrugged. ‘Oh, well, there go my hopes of grandchildren.’

William Connor looked between his wife and his son, appearing somewhat bewildered, and then he too seemed to understand. ‘Oh . . . Oh! Well. That’s—’

‘Yes,’ said Ben. ‘Not really how I meant to tell you. But I don’t even know if we’re still together, so . . .’

‘Well, whatever happens, we’ll support you, you know that!’ said his mother brusquely, waving her hand dismissively. Ben smiled. He did know. He wasn’t sure how he had thought his parents would react, but he had never expected rejection. He was glad they had not proven him wrong in that respect.

‘Thank you,’ he said earnestly. ‘Now, I am really sorry, but I need to get out of my costume and get ready for a party, so . . . It was lovely of you to come!’

‘Of course!’ said his father. ‘Wouldn’t miss it for the world. Have a good party. I hope you . . . sort things out.’

Ben got changed as quickly as he could, pulling off that horrible, scratchy beard for the last time in a good, long while and cleaning off his stage make-up hurriedly. He had hoped to beat the crowds out to the car, but when he exited the stage door, there were fans waving pictures and programmes for him to sign and, _Oh God, please no,_ there was press. He signed a few programmes as quickly as he could, resolutely ignoring the journalists shouting his name.

‘Ben! Ben, how do you feel about your performance in _The Crucible_?’

‘Ben, how do you respond to the rumours put forth in The Sun today?’

‘Ben! How does this relate to last year’s rumours about you and Emma Stone?’

Ben found the last question so perplexing he was tempted to turn around and ask what the man was on about, but he caught himself at the last minute and, apologising profusely to the fans he hadn’t got around to, hurried to the waiting car. 

He hated leaving his fans like this. He loved the contact, loved to see their smiles when he signed their pictures, talked to them, gave them hugs, asked their names. He had, at one point, set up a Twitter account in hopes of getting closer to his fans, but had given up on trying to use it actively. He was too busy and couldn’t really get into it, so it stood unused with over three million followers.

He slid into the back seat next to Alice. ‘Hey,’ she said. ‘You all right?’

‘Yes.’ Ben glanced at her. Earnest, brown eyes looked back. ‘No, not really . . . I should ring Harry.’

‘No need, I just got off the phone with him,’ Alice replied grimly. ‘There’s something you should see.’

She pulled out her Blackberry, typed something and then handed it to Ben. On the screen was a photo. It was slightly dim, somewhat blurry, but the figure on the left was definitely him, and the one on the right . . .

In the photo, Ben had his right hand tangled in Mark’s green hair, and Mark was looking up at him with a decidedly soppy look on his face, a look which Ben mirrored almost perfectly.

He knew exactly when this had been taken. Monday night, outside his home.

‘Apparently, some girl randomly walked by, saw you, got out her iPhone to snap a picture, and caught this,’ said Alice. ‘She put it on her Tumblr. An hour later, it had over a thousand notes, and since then it’s been shared more than 200,000 times.’

Ben handed her the phone back. Then he dipped into his pocket to pull out his own. He dialled Mark’s number. He had never even saved it to his phonebook, he knew it completely by heart. There was no answer, only voicemail.

Mark hadn’t gone to the press. He had been telling the truth. Ben had to speak to him. He tried again, but there was still no reply. He let his hand drop to the seat cushion next to him.

‘I don’t want to go to the party.’ It came out more like a whimper than he’d meant it to, and he cleared his throat.

‘I know, dear,’ said Alice kindly. ‘You should, though. Shake a few hands, hug some people, have a drink or two. Especially now, it’s so important that you do this.’

Ben looked over at her. ‘Harry told you to say this, didn’t he?’

Alice smiled guiltily. ‘Yup,’ she said. ‘Also, you promised to bring me as your plus one and I’ve been dying to meet Natalie Dormer.’

Ben returned her smile. ‘All right,’ he said. ‘I’ll have a drink and make nice for a bit. For you.’

* * *

‘Ben!’ Sir Derek clapped him on the shoulder. ‘Fantastic work, simply fantastic! Your John Proctor has been a masterpiece, truly!’

‘Thank you.’ Ben smiled amiably. ‘It’s been a pleasure working with you. You have been excellent, as always.’

‘Well, none of these roles are exactly easy,’ said the older man with a shrug. ‘I do believe, however, that this has been the best run of _The Crucible_ the London stage has ever seen! If I do say so myself . . .’

Ben laughed. ‘I am inclined to agree. As are the critics. Please, excuse me for a moment.’

He wanted to try Mark again, and headed off in the general direction of the toilets. Everyone had been lovely, congratulating him on his stunning success, wishing him luck in America, and no one had mentioned The Sun or the rumours. This was the London stage, he reminded himself. Most of these people couldn’t care less about his sexual orientation or his choice of partner, the man he had just spoken to being living proof.

‘You look distracted,’ said a voice, and he stopped in his tracks, turning his head in the direction it had come from.

‘Catherine?’ His co-star from _Singularity Sky_ smiled at him. He looked around them for a moment, before returning his gaze to hers. ‘Party-crashing?’ he asked.

Catherine laughed. ‘I’m here with David.’ She closed the distance between them and kissed his cheek. ‘How are you?’

Ben was about to say ‘fine’, but Catherine’s expression told him she already knew he wasn’t. ‘Anxious, worried, frightened . . . Take your pick.’

‘I heard about the rumours. Saw the photo, too.’

‘Yeah.’

‘Wanna tell me about it?’ She arched an eyebrow at him. Ben hesitated. ‘You know, in the months we worked together on _Sky_ , I thought we became quite close,’ she continued. ‘I wish you’d talked to me.’

Ben sighed, slumping his shoulders somewhat. He swirled the wine in his glass a little bit, took a sip, glanced up at her again. ‘His name is Mark,’ he said softly. ‘I met him at your after party. He snuck in.’

‘Clearly I need better security at my next party,’ said Catherine drily. ‘Go on.’

‘He gave me his number, I went to America, I came back and thought, why not? One thing led to another and . . .’ Ben clicked his tongue. ‘Then this happened, and I mistrusted him, thought he’d gone to the press. I don’t . . . I don’t know how I could think that of him. And now I can’t get hold of him, and I’m worried because I don’t know if he’s ignoring me or if he’s gone and done something stupid.’

‘Like what?’

‘I don’t even know . . . He’s the impulsive kind.’ Ben shook his head and sighed. ‘I know I should be worrying about my career right now, but . . .’

‘You’ll be fine!’ said Catherine. ‘You’re a fantastic actor, Ben. No one’s gonna care if you come out. Look at Neil. Zach. Sir Ian, for goodness’ sake. They’re not exactly short on roles.’

‘Neil doesn’t make it out of television a lot, though, and Zach and Sir Ian only get big roles in genre films,’ Ben reminded her. ‘But, I know. Stephen, Russell, Mark—Gatiss, I mean—Rupert, well best not mention Rupert . . . Sir Derek, of course. He and Sir Ian have that sitcom. Like I said, though, I know I should be worrying about this, but all I can think about right now is Mark.’

Catherine nodded, slowly, looking thoughtful. ‘Go try him again,’ she said. 

Ben smiled at her. ‘Thank you, Catherine,’ he said. ‘For—’

‘Don’t mention it,’ said Catherine. ‘Now go away.’

Ben handed her his glass and then rushed into one of the toilets, putting his phone to his ear. It rang once, twice, three times, four times, voicemail. He tried again. Once, twice, three times. . .

‘Yeah?’ The background was very noisy, but Ben could clearly hear Mark’s voice.

‘Mark?’ he said. ‘It’s . . . It’s me.’

‘Yeah, I know.’

‘Where are you?’

‘Party!’ Mark replied. ‘Bloody fantastic one, too!’

‘Er . . . Good for you . . .’ Ben hesitated. ‘Look, I need to talk to you.’

‘Sorry?’

‘Go somewhere you can hear me?’ Ben pleaded. There was a change in the background noise, the click of a door, and it became quieter. ‘Thank you. I need to talk to you.’

‘Well, I’m at a party!’ Mark repeated.

‘I know, I just . . . I’m sorry, all right? I was wrong.’

‘Whatever.’

‘Mark, please . . . Can I see you?’

‘Aren’t you at some fancy party yourself?’

‘Yes, but this isn’t where I want to be,’ said Ben emphatically. ‘Please! I need to talk to you. I need us to work this out. Okay?’

There was a pause. ‘Okay,’ said Mark.

‘Okay. Good. Where are you?’

Mark gave him the address. Camden.

‘I’ll be there in half an hour,’ said Ben urgently. ‘I’ll call you when I’m there, all right?’

‘Sure.’ Mark’s voice sounded distant. ‘See ya.’ Then he hung up, without waiting for a reply.

* * *

Ben returned to Catherine and bid her good night.

‘Got hold of him, then?’ She smiled softly.

Ben nodded in confirmation. ‘I should stay, I know that, I just—’

‘Don’t worry about it,’ said Catherine, touching his upper arm reassuringly. ‘I’ll make your excuses if people ask.’

Ben nodded. ‘Thank you. I don’t deserve friends like you.’ He kissed her cheek. ‘We’ll have lunch soon,’ he promised.

‘Not if this goes as you hope, I reckon.’ Catherine smirked at him. ‘I’ll hold you to it, though.’

Ben sought out Alice in the crowd. He found her talking to two actors and a writer and pulled her aside.

‘I have to go,’ he said urgently. ‘I managed to reach Mark.’

‘All right, get out of here. I’ve got you covered.’ Alice hugged him. ‘I’ll call for the car. Mike will take you where you’re going, and home after.’

‘Cheers,’ said Ben. ‘You’re too good to me.’

Alice shrugged. ‘It’s what you pay me for. Good luck!’

‘Thank you.’

The car belonged to the agency that represented Ben. He didn’t have his own chauffeur and didn’t want one, either. In truth, he preferred to drive for himself—otherwise, what was the point in owning a Jaguar?—but he rarely had the opportunity. Driving in London was usually not worth it, and as such his fancy car spent most of its time safe in a high security parking garage, while Ben took cabs where he needed to go. He had kept taking the tube for as long as he could, but that was no longer an option. The price of fame.

It had just gone one o’clock when he disembarked in Camden. He asked Mike to wait for him. There was loud techno music coming from inside the building. He pulled out his mobile to let Mark know he was there. There was no answer, but only a few moments later Mark came out of the building. He was dressed in a reasonably tight white tank top, torn jeans and army boots. He wore a couple of glow sticks for bracelets, blue and green.

‘Hey,’ said Ben breathlessly.

‘Hey.’ Mark wore a soft smile as he looked Ben up and down. ‘Nice suit.’

‘Oh. Thank you.’ It was a simple two piece, charcoal grey, over a black shirt and pale silver-green tie. ‘You look nice too.’

Mark laughed. It was a raw, somewhat manic but humourless laugh. He took a couple of steps closer. There was something fluid, almost feline in his movements. He ran his fingers through his hair. It seemed slightly damp, and there was a sheen of sweat to his face. He must have been dancing. 

‘What is it you really want?’ Mark crossed his arms in front of his chest. He was still smiling that odd, soft smile. ‘Cause there’s a _gorgeous_ man in there who’s begging me to let him suck me off.’

Ben frowned. ‘Is that meant to make me jealous?’ 

‘I dunno. Is it working?’ The expression on Mark’s face was unreadable, but he was tapping his foot restlessly, shifting his weight from one foot to the other. It made him seem agitated. ‘Are we done? You’re pissing on my parade, you know . . .’

‘No, we’re not done,’ said Ben. ‘I came to apologise, okay? I was wrong. There’s . . . there’s a photo.’

Mark looked completely disinterested. ‘Whatever,’ he said in a bored drawl. ‘I’m over it, anyway.’

Ben closed the distance between them. He raised his hands to Mark’s shoulders, examining his face. Mark’s eyes narrowed at the touch, but he didn’t flinch away from it. On the contrary, he seemed to somewhat lean into it, as though his body craved closeness even if his mind didn’t. His skin was hot, his pupils blown. He licked his lips.

‘What have you taken?’ asked Ben quietly.

‘What?’ Mark took a step back, pulling himself out of Ben’s grasp. ‘Nothing!’ he said defensively, refusing to meet his gaze again.

‘Don’t lie to me.’

Mark took another step back, uncrossing his arms and putting his hands on his hips. ‘I haven’t taken anything! Besides, it’s not like it’s any of your business . . . And I haven’t taken anything.’

‘You have,’ said Ben. ‘You’re not being yourself, and I’m not smelling a lot of booze on you, which means you’re high as a bloody kite. No use denying it. Now, what did you take?’ He used the most commanding tone of voice he could muster.

Mark looked down at his boots as he spoke. ‘Just E,’ he mumbled. ‘They . . . they offered me special K, too, but I didn’t take any.’ He pulled a tiny zip-locked bag out of his pocket and showed it to Ben. It contained two tiny, round, pink pills. ‘For later,’ he explained.

Ben took the bag from him and frowned at the pills. Then he dropped the bag on the ground and stepped on it. ‘No. More. Drugs.’ His voice was quiet but commanding. He glared up at Mark, who stood wide-eyed, staring at him. ‘Ever. I’m taking you home.’

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The title _The King's Man_ was a suggestion from my friend Paul. 
> 
> I included a few actual lines from _The Crucible_. These belong to the descendants of Arthur Miller. No copyright infringement intended.
> 
> I picture Sir Derek Jacobi as playing Giles Corey in this particular production of _The Crucible_. Natalie Dormer probably plays Abigail Williams.
> 
> Kudos to whomever can name by full name all the gay actors mentioned in conversation in this chapter. ;)


	6. The Day After Yesterday

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Ben takes Mark home and aftermath needs to be dealt with.

Ben took Mark by the arm, steering him towards the car.

‘No!’ Mark protested weakly. ‘I wanna go back in and dance!’

‘Yeah, well, you’re not,’ said Ben. ‘I’m taking you home and putting you to bed. We’ll talk about this in the morning.’

He pushed Mark into the backseat of the car and slid in after him. He gave Mike Mark’s address and strapped the boy in before putting on his own seatbelt. 

‘Mm, bed. I like the sound of bed.’ Mark leaned across the middle seat and flicked his tongue out to lick Ben’s cheek. Ben pulled away.

‘Not here.’

‘Why not?’ Mark pouted. ‘You taste good. I know where else you taste good. . .’ He reached out towards Ben’s fly, but Ben grasped his hand before he could touch him.

‘I said no!’ he growled. He kept Mark’s hand in his for the remainder of the trip.

When they got out of the car, Ben told Mike he could go home. Then he steered Mark down towards the basement, fished the keys out of his pocket and unlocked the door. He sat Mark down on the bed and got a large glass of water for him. Mark downed the whole glass at once. Then he lay down of his own accord. Ben helped him peel off his jeans and put the duvet over him before going to lie down on the couch. 

‘Won’t you sleep in my bed?’ Mark asked a moment later. 

‘No.’

‘But I’m cold.’

‘No, you’re not, you’re burning up,’ said Ben. ‘Go to sleep.’

‘Okay,’ said Mark meekly. He seemed to be coming down, and a few minutes later his breathing evened out and he was asleep. 

He didn’t wake when his mobile rang about fifteen minutes later. Ben pulled it out of Mark’s trouser pocket. The screen told him that ‘Alex’ was calling. He frowned at the name for a moment, debating whether or not to answer. In the end he decided he better had.

‘Hello?’

There was a lot of noise in the background. One of the friends still at the party, then. ‘Mark? Where are you? No, wait, who’s this?’ The man spoke in an American accent.

‘This is Mark’s boyfriend,’ said Ben through gritted teeth. ‘I’m assuming you’re one of the idiots who thought it would be a good idea to give E to a depressed person?’

‘Don’t blame me, the guy needed cheering up,’ said the voice of Alex. He sounded about as bothered as Mark had. ‘I take it you two squared up, then? Good for you. Put Mark on?’

‘Mark is asleep. I took him home.’

‘Aww, you should have come partied with us instead! Whatever. I hope you gave it to him good, he looked like he needed it.’

Ben said nothing.

‘Your voice sounds kind of familiar. . . Have we met?’

‘I am almost positive we haven’t,’ said Ben. ‘Now, if you would excuse me, I am going to sleep as well. Oh, and, Alex? If you value keeping your spleen intact. . . don’t offer my lover drugs, ever again.’

He hung up without awaiting a reply. That may have been hasty, he realised, not to mention melodramatic. But what was done was done. No point in worrying about it.

Ben spent a long time lying awake on the too-short couch, listening to Mark’s breathing. He finally drifted off to sleep himself.

* * *

Ben made no attempt to rouse Mark when he woke up the following morning, opting to let him sleep. Instead he went through his fridge but found nothing edible. Borrowing Mark’s key, he took a walk to the nearest Sainsbury’s to buy coffee, bread, cheese, eggs and orange juice. As it was relatively early on a Sunday, there were few people about to potentially badger him, and Ben was left blessedly alone. The cashier recognised him, however, and asked for his autograph for his niece. Ben obliged.

When he got back, he put the kettle on and proceeded to find a book in Mark’s expansive collection to read.

At around one o’clock, Ben’s mobile rang.

‘Good morning, Harry,’ said Ben.

‘Afternoon,’ Harry corrected. ‘Have you sorted things out?’

Ben glanced over at the sleeping form of Mark in the bed. ‘Not yet.’

‘Well, let me know when you have, and when you’ve decided what you want to do. I’ve e-mailed over a couple of potential statements. Please have a look at your leisure.’

‘Sure.’ 

Mark stirred slightly in the bed.

‘I’ve got to go, Harry,’ said Ben. ‘I’ll call you later.’

‘Make sure you do! Bye.’

Mark sat up very slowly, rubbing his eyes. He turned his head to look at Ben.

‘Ben? Wha—what’re you doing here?’ He clutched his stomach. ‘Oh, shit . . .’ He tumbled out of bed quicker than looked comfortable, and hurried off to the bathroom, slamming the door behind him. 

Ben calmly went over to the kitchenette, poured a cup of coffee and stuck it in the microwave for a few seconds. Then he set it down on the coffee table and sat back down on the couch with his book.

Mark reemerged a few minutes later, looking slightly pale. Ben nodded towards the cup of coffee, and Mark sat down next to him, picking up the cup and taking a sip. He grimaced.

‘How are you feeling?’ asked Ben.

‘Like death,’ Mark replied grimly. ‘I . . . I think I had a pretty awesome time last night, though. It’s all sort of . . . blurry.’

‘You took E.’

‘Yeah, I know.’ Mark looked up at him. ‘You’re upset with me about that, aren’t you?’

Ben let out a breath of air and closed the book, placing it on the table in front of him. ‘Maybe,’ he admitted. ‘I suppose I don’t really understand why you did it . . .’

Mark scoffed. ‘Then you’re more clueless than I thought you were.’ He leaned back in his seat, sipping his coffee. ‘You . . . fucking left me. Dumped me, pretty much. I was . . .’ He seemed to be searching for words. ‘I was completely fucking destroyed. Then some friends rang me up, invited me out, and I thought it was better than sitting at home moping, so I went. Sort of told them what was wrong when they asked, that I’d had a fight with my lover and felt like crap, and they wanted to cheer me up. So they got some shit. Ecstasy, ketamine . . . I went with just the E.’ He sighed. ‘You weren’t supposed to see me like that.’

‘No?’ Ben felt the anger rise in his voice. ‘How was I bloody well supposed to see you? Dead after an overdose?’

‘No one ODs on E!’ said Mark dismissively.

‘Yes, they bloody well do!’ Ben was barely aware that he had even raised his voice before he was half-standing, chest heaving. He took a breath and sat back down again. ‘Look, I know what drugs can do, all right? I’m hardly a stranger to the concept myself.’

‘I’m not a junkie!’ Mark set the cup down rather harder than necessary and turned towards him, taking his hand. ‘Please, listen to me . . . I’ve only taken E, like, once before. Maybe twice. I don’t party much. Fuck, I barely even smoke weed, all right? I just . . . I felt like shit . . .’ His eyes welled up with tears then, and he brushed angrily at his cheeks with his hand. Then he seemed to shudder and just sort of collapse against Ben, who held him tightly.

‘I’m sorry,’ he whispered. ‘I’m sorry I didn’t believe you, I . . . I really am.’

Mark clung to his shirt, sobbing and shaking. ‘I know . . . This isn’t about that, it’s just . . . aftershock . . .’

‘I’m still sorry.’

Ben held Mark until he’d calmed down again. Then he let go and Mark pulled a few deep breaths. ‘Fucking hell,’ he muttered. ‘I’m so tired . . .’

‘You slept for eleven hours.’

‘I’m still tired.’

‘Think you could eat something?’

Mark seemed to consider for a moment. Then he shook his head. ‘Not yet. No appetite. Besides, I’ll just get the shits again.’

‘Right, more information than I wanted, there.’ Ben smiled wryly.

‘Sorry,’ said Mark, completely unapologetically. Then he grew serious. ‘Thank you. For getting me home and looking after me.’

‘Well, it’s the least I could do.’ Ben shrugged. ‘I really am sorry, you know. About yesterday . . . It wasn’t fair of me, any of it.’

‘It’s okay,’ Mark mumbled, looking down at his hands.

‘No, it’s not.’ Ben reached out to cup Mark’s chin, and Mark met his gaze. ‘Sorry isn’t enough. I want to make it up to you.’

‘You don’t have to do anything,’ said Mark weakly. ‘I think . . . I seem to remember I said some fairly mean things to you last night . . . I think we’re kind of even. So, I’ll forgive you if you’ll forgive me.’

Ben smiled. ‘Deal.’ Then he leaned in for a chaste kiss. ‘I feel like I should leave you, let you get some rest,’ he said, pulling away. ‘But I do need to talk to you about what’s going to happen next. So, how about I come back tonight? I’ll cook you dinner.’

‘I can’t guarantee I’ll have an appetite,’ said Mark, ‘but all right.’

‘I bought some bread and cheese and things,’ Ben told him. ‘In case you do get hungry. And you can call me if you need anything. And I mean anything, I’ll just be at home. All right?’

Mark nodded. Ben leaned in for another kiss and then he stood up to leave. ‘Make sure you get some proper rest.’

‘Yeah. Thanks.’

* * *

When Ben got home he took a shower and changed his clothes. Then he sat down at his computer and rifled through his e-mails. His agent had been in touch about a script, a few fan letters had been forwarded to him, and Harry had sent him two drafts for a press statement. One that confirmed The Sun’s piece ( _‘Mr. Connor has for the past few weeks been seeing . . .’_ ) and one that denied it ( _‘These rumours are nothing but hearsay and speculation’_ ). Neither sounded right. Pandering to the media circus was Ben’s least favourite part of the job. 

An idea struck him. Ben opened a text document and got to typing.

 

_To my dear fans,_

_I am sure you are all aware of the rumours. Most of you were probably aware of them long before I was. And I am certain that you are all looking for answers. At this time I have none to give._

_What I would like to do is ask you all to leave it be. I find it painful and insulting that my personal life, my friendships and relationships, should be public domain. I do not see how it is anyone’s business but my own whom I spend time with, date or fall in love with._

_I know that you all see the hypocrisy in this situation. Had such a photograph been taken of me with a woman in a similar circumstance, no one would care. While it might have been assumed that this was someone I was seeing romantically, it would not have been big news. I do not see why this should be either._

_I would ask that you stop circulating the photograph. Not for my sake, but for the sake of the other person in it. This is a request, not a demand. I do not intend to take legal action against anyone who does not comply. I would simply ask that you do not complicate a young man’s life just because he happened to be seen in a photograph with me._

_This is a somewhat unorthodox way of doing things. Normally at this point, my publicist would be drafting a statement to be sent out to the press, either confirming, denying or detailing my refusal to comment on these rumours. Instead, I have asked him to post this statement to my official website, as well as send it to all the major fan sites. It is my hope that if you, the fans, declare your indifference in this matter, it will very quickly become a non-story, as it should be._

 

_With love and respect,_

_Benjamin Connor_

 

He read through it a few times. He was certain that Harry would not be happy about this.

A text from Mark buzzed in.

_Angsting out. Please come._

Ben copy-pasted the text into an e-mail and sent it to Harry. He rang him on the way out the door. His publicist had evidently already seen the e-mail, because he answered with, ‘What the hell is this supposed to be?’

‘This is what I’d like you to do.’ Ben hailed a cab. ‘I meant what I wrote. I don’t see that this is any of the media’s business. I am convinced that if we do this, this story will quickly die down, at least in Britain.’

‘But not necessarily in America,’ Harry pressed. ‘Hollywood isn’t London, Ben.’

‘If we comment one way or the other, we fuel the flames.’ Ben paused to give the cabbie Mark’s address. ‘I won’t lie, but there’s really nothing to confirm either. I _am_ seeing someone. I don’t know if this is a committed relationship or what. I don’t see that it matters. I just want my personal life left alone. Is that so much to ask? Let them speculate.’

He heard Harry sigh on the other end. Then he said, ‘All right. If this is what you want to do, I’ll do my best to help you.’

‘Thank you, Harry.’

* * *

He knocked on Mark’s door three times. When there was no answer, he tried again, accompanying the knocking with a cautious, ‘Mark? It’s me.’ Shuffling footsteps could be heard from within, and then Mark pulled the door open a fraction. 

‘Hey,’ said Ben softly. ‘Can I come in?’

Mark nodded, taking several steps back so Ben could open the door fully. Then he just stood in the middle of the floor, hugging himself awkwardly. His hair looked slightly damp. He had obviously showered, and had changed into a black hoodie, with what Ben assumed was some band logo or another on it, and grey sweats. His feet were bare.

Ben stepped inside and shut the door behind him. He shed his shoes and then took a few steps towards Mark, stopping at a safe distance, as though he were approaching a frightened animal.

‘You okay?’

Mark shook his head. ‘Not really.’

Ben took another couple of steps, closing the distance between them, and carefully put his arms around Mark. He was shivering, but upon contact he seemed to relax against Ben, letting out a shuddering sigh.

‘What’s wrong?’ asked Ben softly.

‘Nothing.’ Mark shook his head again. ‘Just, you know, general anxiety. I feel sort of . . . scared, but I don’t really know what of.’

‘It’s all right. You’re all right.’ Ben stroked Mark’s back soothingly. ‘You’re still coming down, that’s all. Back to normal in a few hours.’

‘Yeah . . .’ Mark appeared to hesitate for a moment. ‘I was getting compulsions,’ he admitted at last. ‘I wanted to . . . hurt myself. So I thought I’d better . . . It was best if you came and stopped me.’

‘That was some very good thinking,’ said Ben with a smile. 

Mark laughed weakly. ‘I have my moments,’ he mumbled. 

They spent the rest of the afternoon on the couch, Mark lying half-asleep with his head in Ben’s lap while the latter finished the book he had started reading that morning. Somewhere around six in the evening, Mark sat up and announced that he was hungry, and Ben went to the shop and bought ingredients for a stir-fry. He improvised a sauce from orange juice and soy sauce (which was one of the few things Mark had in his kitchen cupboards). Mark wolfed his food down so quickly that Ben worried he’d make himself sick, but he did not.

After they had eaten, they collapsed back in the same position. Ben ran his fingers through Mark’s hair, trying to formulate in his head what he wanted to say. Now that Mark was feeling better, it felt like it was time they talk about the press or their relationship or the drugs, or all three.

Mark beat him to it. ‘Ben?’

‘Mhm?’

Mark chewed his lower lip, brow furrowed, before glancing up at Ben’s face. ‘What happens now?’

‘I don’t know.’ Ben let out a sigh. ‘I wrote an e-mail earlier, for Harry to send out to all the fan sites, asking them to let the matter lie. My fans aren’t screaming fourteen-year-olds. Generally they’re mature and intelligent human beings, so I’m hoping that will be enough to kill the story for a while. As for us . . .’

Mark looked away. ‘Thanks for looking after me today. I’ll understand if this whole thing will have put you off—’

Ben spoke over him. ‘I’m falling in love with you.’

Mark shut up abruptly and turned his wide eyes back on Ben. Ben felt his heart pounding in his chest as they regarded one another. Then Mark reached up to caress his cheek. He sat up and, putting his arms around Ben’s neck, kissed him fiercely. Ben kissed him back, once again forgetting all his concerns and letting himself get lost in the sensation of Mark’s embrace, Mark’s eyelashes against his cheek, Mark’s tongue in his mouth, Mark’s scent in his nostrils. Ben enveloped him in his arms, pulling him closer.

His lover pulled back slightly and, eyes still closed, whispered, ‘In case that didn’t convey it well enough . . . I’ve been in love with you for a while now.’

Ben chuckled, deep in his throat, and felt Mark shudder against him. He was quite certain that this shudder wasn’t caused by anxiety or aftershock, and smiled wider. Mark opened his eyes. He no longer looked nervous or anxious or afraid. Instead he looked every bit the flirty, confident young man Ben had first met. That filled him with relief. Mark was all right. Everything would be all right, one way or another. 

He suddenly remembered something. ‘I may have referred to myself as your boyfriend to your friend Alex last night.’

Mark frowned. ‘Alex? When did you talk to him?’

‘He rang you after you’d fallen asleep. Wanted to know where you’d got to. I also may or may not have threatened him with grievous bodily harm if he ever gave you drugs again.’

Mark laughed. ‘I’ll murder him myself if he tries. I’m done with drugs. Today . . . has not been pleasant. If I ever express to you in any way that I want to get high, feel free to knock me unconscious.’

Ben chuckled again. He soon sobered, however, remembering something else. ‘I’m leaving for America in a week.’

Mark nodded. ‘I know.’

‘I’ll be gone for over  two months, shooting this film. I can’t ask you to wait for me.’

‘You don’t have to ask,’ said Mark. ‘I’ll do it anyway. I want to.’ 

He did not ask that Ben do the same, nor did he try to tell him he shouldn’t. They both knew, somehow, that there was no need to do either.

Then Mark was kissing him again, tasting like the promise of good things to come, and Ben resolutely ignored the little voice in his head that asked, _But what about the next time you have a fight? What about the next time he is really upset about something? Are you really going to entrust your heart to someone who is so utterly incapable of taking care of his own?_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I really very intensely hear Harry's voice as having a Scottish accent, Glaswegian probably, though in early drafts he was from Blackpool.


	7. The Dream of California

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Ben goes out to dinner.

He looked at her intently over his cup of cider. She stared him down, unwavering. He broke the gaze first, smiling.

‘Is that what you think of me?’

She raised her chin haughtily. ‘You call yourself an honourable man, Lieutenant. My brothers are off fighting as we speak. If you met them on the battlefield, what then?’

‘Then I would do my duty.’

‘For king and country?’ she scoffed. 

He looked back at her, head cocked slightly to one side. ‘Yes. Though it would hurt me greatly to know that I had caused you any grief.’

‘This is our lot, Lieutenant Barker. Your king has sent you here to recruit loyalists and squash a rebellion. I fear you’ll find we’re not so easily squashed. What say you to that?’

‘Not a blessed thing,’ he murmured. ‘Except that I hope that one day this will all be over and I shall be able to call you friend.’

She stood up. ‘You shall have to wait a long time for such a day. Good night, Lieutenant.’

‘. . . And cut!’ 

Ben let his head drop forward, stretching the muscles at the back of his neck. He rolled his shoulders a couple of times and then looked up at his costar with a smile. ‘Excellent work.’

‘You too.’ Matilda Weber replied good-naturedly. ‘You really get into your roles, don’t you?’

Ben shrugged. ‘I suppose,’ he said humbly. ‘You bring out the best in me, though, I think. It’s easy to be James Barker when you’re such a convincing Jennifer Perry. I am particularly fond of the accent.’

‘Really? I thought a Southern drawl tended to annoy you limeys.’ She smiled a wry half smile. Ben laughed.

‘That was very good, you two!’ cried the director, who had just finished a brief discussion with one of the cameramen. ‘We’ll do another take from another angle in about ten minutes. If that goes smoothly, we’ll shoot Matilda’s coverage after that.’

Ben stood, stretching his back. ‘Hate doing singles,’ he muttered. ‘Never have to do that on stage.’

‘Ooh, look at you, the classical actor!’ Matilda grinned. 

Ben chuckled, hopping up and down a couple of times to get circulation back into his legs. Then he looked at her. ‘Want me to feed you lines for your coverage?’

She smiled at him. ‘Thanks. That would be great.’

* * *

‘Liam wants you to call, he says he has some more information about that script he sent you. And Harry had some things he wanted to discuss with you regarding the _Country Sunsets_ publicity tour, so you should give him a call later as well.’ Alice handed Ben a blue folder. ‘Your schedule for the rest of the week.’

‘Thank you.’ Ben opened the folder and flipped through it. ‘Oh, I’m free tonight. Good.’

‘Skype date?’ Alice smiled conspiratorially. Ever since she’d found out about his relationship with Mark she had been a bit more nosy than she had any right to be, but Ben was too fond of his PA to really mind.

‘No, we’re keeping in touch by e-mail.’

‘Oh. All right.’ Alice gave him a sympathetic smile.

‘Ben!’ 

He turned around to see Matilda trotting towards him. ‘Yes?’

‘Good work today!’ She smiled. ‘It was really good of you to feed me lines. I was just wondering if you had any plans for dinner?’

‘Actually, no,’ said Ben. ‘Not tonight.’

‘Great! I kind of have dinner reservations for a fancy place in Beverly Hills, and my date canceled on me. Figured it would be a good chance to get to know each other better.’

Ben smiled. ‘All right, why not? What time?’

‘Eight.’ Matilda grinned at him. ‘Looking forward to it already!’

* * *

‘Wow, you weren’t joking about this being a fancy place,’ said Ben as he sat down. The waiter handed him a menu. ‘Thank you. Who on Earth would blow you off and miss out on this?’

Matilda laughed. ‘My dad. He was in town on business, so I thought I’d take him out, but he had to leave early. It’s okay, I saw him last weekend. Just thought I’d show him that my acting pays enough to constitute a real job.’

Ben chuckled. 

‘Can I get you something to drink?’ asked their waiter.

‘Yes. . .’ Ben thought for a moment. ‘An apéritif, perhaps? Dry martini?’

‘Yeah, dry martini sounds good,’ Matilda agreed. ‘Make that two, please.’

As the waiter walked away, Ben glanced at Matilda over the top of his menu. ’Your dad doesn’t approve?’

Matilda grimaced. ‘He doesn’t _dis_ approve. He just doesn’t really get it, you know? He’s kind of conservative, very down to earth, not so much with the art stuff. If he’d been here, he would have spent most of the evening bugging me about growing up, getting married and giving him grandkids. How about your folks?’

‘Oh, no issues on that account,’ said Ben. ‘My dad used to act, my mum’s a choir mistress. The arts were always big in our house. My mum keeps trying to set me up with all manner of women, but she does take no for an answer.’

‘Hm, I envy you.’ Matilda studied her menu. ‘So, what food group do you suppose “foam” belongs to?’

Ben laughed, just as the waiter returned with their drinks. 

‘Are you guys ready to order?’

Ben looked at Matilda, questioningly. 

‘I think I’d like a few more minutes, thanks.’

The waiter inclined his head and left them alone again.

‘This stuff is a little beyond me, to be honest,’ Matilda admitted. ‘I’m a simple girl, I like burgers and fries, and pizza, and fried chicken.’

‘There _is_ chicken,’ Ben pointed out.

‘“Charred chicken breast with pomme de terre terrine and parsnip foam, topped with fresh thyme and pomegranate,”’ Matilda read out. ‘Doesn’t sound so bad, I guess.’

‘There’s that infernal foam again, though.’

She giggled. ‘Yeah, they want us to leave here feeling like we haven’t really eaten. Of course, eating isn’t the point of these places. Being seen in the right place is, preferably with the right people. I guarantee tomorrow there will be mentions in the press of how you and I had a “romantic” or “friendly” or “professional” dinner date, depending on how we look at each other when we pass the paparazzi on our way out.’

‘Oh, so you had ulterior motives in asking me?’ Ben smirked.

Matilda shrugged. ‘Not really. Not gonna pretend I don’t find you. . . interesting, though.’ She looked at him, smiling a cute little half smile. ‘Don’t worry. I’m not coming onto you, I’ve heard you don’t date other actors. And if the rumours are to be believed. . .’

‘Ah. So they _did_ make it across the pond.’

‘Can’t stop the Internet. I don’t really care one way or the other. I’ve been hearing a lot lately, though. People worry, about you and your career, about future movies you star in. . . It’s insane that the business should be like this, but there you have it.’

Ben shook his head. ‘I honestly shouldn’t even be talking about this. My agent and my publicist are both worried, too. Even had a studio withdraw an offer just after the Sun piece hit. I’m still getting offers, though. My agent keeps sending scripts my way. All this is subject to change, of course.’

‘If you come out properly, you mean?’

Ben chose not to answer, opting for an enigmatic smile. Just then, their waiter returned to take their orders, and he was spared having to make a reply. 

The food, for all its foam and randomly inserted french words, was excellent, and they spent the rest of their dinner chatting about less serious matters, drinking wine and getting to know each other. Ben found he rather liked Matilda Weber. She was twenty-eight years old, intelligent, funny and very pretty. With her honey blonde hair and hazel eyes, she was exactly the sort of girl Ben might have gone for, had he been looking for a relationship with a woman. As he ate his rather magnificent passion fruit mousse, however, he wondered idly whether—should his relationship with Mark come to an end—he would be able to return to dating women, or whether he would continue to crave . . . Well. This was neither the time nor the place to think about such things.

‘So, I guess a straight answer is out of the question, huh?’ said Matilda. She sipped her espresso and smiled at him. 

‘Regarding what?’

‘The rumours.’

‘Ah.’ Ben looked down at his plate. ‘Yes. A _straight_ answer _is_ out of the question.’ He smirked, considering the double entendre. It appeared to have gone unnoticed by his companion.

‘What if I ask a direct question? Will you lie?’

‘No, but I might refuse to answer at all.’

‘Are you seeing anyone?’

‘Possibly.’

‘Are you seeing a man?’

Ben met her inquisitive gaze, keeping his expression mild but blank. He said nothing.

‘Are you gay?’ she tried next.

‘Nope,’ said Ben, truthfully.

‘Bisexual?’

‘Could be.’ Ben put down his dessert fork and leaned back in his chair. ‘How about you?’

She laughed. ‘I . . . You know, I don’t really know. Everyone dabbles, don’t they?’

‘Ever been with another woman?’

‘Not fully. Ever been with another man?’

Without missing a beat, ‘Yes.’

‘Holy shit!’ Matilda leaned back as well, crossing her arms. ‘That was a more direct answer than I expected!’

‘I am full of surprises.’

‘Aren’t you just . . .’

‘When you say “not fully” . . . what does that mean?’

Matilda opened her mouth, seeming to weigh her words, before replying, ‘Everything but tongues and toys.’

Ben’s eyebrows rose and he let a slow grin spread over his features. ‘ _That_ was a more direct answer than _I_ expected.’

‘I’m full of surprises.’

‘Will there be anything else?’

Ben started slightly and looked up at their waiter. What was it with waiters in fancy restaurants and sneaking up on their customers? He glanced at Matilda, who shook her head. ‘No, thank you. I think we’ll just have the bill, please.’

‘He means “check”, the limey bastard,’ Matilda supplied, and Ben laughed out loud.

The waiter nodded, looking slightly uncomfortable, and walked away.

‘You, my dear, are positively British,’ said Ben admiringly. 

‘Thanks. I have an aunt who married a Brit. Spent some summers in Sussex when I was a kid.’

‘And it all falls into place.’ Ben shook his head. ‘Knew there was something about you.’

Matilda shrugged. ‘I also have three older brothers. I spent my childhood climbing trees, catching frogs and building go-carts. Airs and social graces ain’t exactly high on my list of recommendations. Instead I got really good at, how is it you’d put it . . . “taking the piss”.’ Her eyes met his. ‘What?’

Ben had been looking at her with a half smile and what he imagined must have been a fond sort of gaze. ‘You remind me of a friend of mine. You’re both very . . . frank.’

Their waiter returned with the bill, and Ben handed him his credit card automatically.

Matilda elevated an eyebrow at him. ‘Oh, you’re pulling the chivalry card, huh?’

Ben waved his hand dismissively. ‘Don’t be silly. You can pay next time.’

* * *

When he got back to his hotel room just after midnight it was already eight in the morning in London, so he decided to call Liam about the script for _Lunatics Who Think They Are Psychic and Freak Themselves Out in Old Houses_. Then he rang Harry, who ranted at him about Letterman and Craig Ferguson for about twenty minutes.

‘Really, Harry, I’m up for anything as long as we can fit it in, all right? Did you have anything more specific to discuss with me?’

‘Nope,’ said his publicist. ‘Not really. Ooh, nice photo!’

‘What?’

‘Of you and Matilda Weber coming out of a restaurant.’

Ben blinked. ‘Huh. They don’t waste time, do they?’

‘According to this, you had a “friendly dinner date”—’ Ben smiled; that was exactly what Matilda had said, ‘—and “appeared thick as thieves upon exiting the trendy establishment”. Well done, Ben. Anything to take their attention away from Mark is a good thing.’

‘Well, I don’t want them thinking I’m dating Matilda either,’ said Ben. 

‘Anything that takes their attention _away_ from Mark is a _good thing_ , Ben,’ Harry repeated. ‘How’s filming getting on?’

‘Good. It’s all good.’

‘And you did have a nice time at this dinner date of yours?’

‘Yes, it was lovely. She’s lovely. One of my favourite leading ladies to date.’

‘Well, then, there’s no problem, is there? Now, get some sleep. Good night.’

‘Night.’ Ben hung up and sat down at his laptop to check his e-mail. He smiled upon discovering one from Mark with the subject line, _I wanna do bad things with you_.

 

_How was your day? Are you working hard still? Don’t let them drive you TOO hard, I want there to be some left for me when I get you back._

_Alex tried to ask me to come to another party tonight. I told him to piss off, went to the pub instead. Ran into this bloke I used to know. Not in a sexual way, he’s straight, just in a friend way. Robert. Drummer. Says he has a studio now, invited me to come take a look some day. We started talking about a possible band project. Doubt it’ll come to fruition, but I hope to be able to take advantage of his studio. It was nice catching up._

_I’ve been busy today. Tara needed help at the bookshop, so I took a shift. She says she can get me work for a couple of weeks. It was a quiet day, so I spent most of it sitting behind the register reading Heinlein. Have you read_ The Door into Summer _? Really good book, so far._

_Played some guitar when I got home, before I went to the pub. Came up with a chord progression I really like, just need to come up with some lyrics for it._

_I miss you so fucking much. I can’t believe it’s only been two weeks, I wish you could come home now and shag me silly. Don’t get me wrong, it’s not just your cock I miss, but the mind does wander. I keep thinking about all the things I want to do to you when you get back. Of course, the first thing I want to do is just hug you and kiss you and all that other stupid, romantic shit._

_I miss you. Come home soon._

_Yours,_

_Mark Xx_

 

Ben let out a sigh and sat back in his chair, staring at the words on his screen. It had been Mark’s idea to keep in touch by e-mail only. In his words, ‘If we talk to each other every day or see each other on Skype or whatever, it’ll only make everything harder. This way, I can do my shit here, and you can do your shit there, and we won’t spend our days pining. Hopefully.’

It had made sense at the time. It still did, in a way, but right then, Ben would have given just about anything to see his lover smile at him.

He hit ‘reply’ and began typing.

 

_Dear Mark,_

_My day was good. We finished shooting two scenes, which feels good. Then I went out to dinner with my costar, Matilda Weber. Don’t be alarmed if you happen to see photos of us exiting a fancy restaurant together. It really was just dinner._

_She’s nice. A lot like you, actually. I think I might have to introduce you some time. The two of you could gang up on me. She’s very sharp, almost as sharp as you. Almost, but not quite._

_Not much else has happened, really. That script Liam had me look over is hilarious. Apparently they’re still looking for funding, though, so it’s far from certain that it will even be made into a film. Hope they find someone to back it. It will be refreshing to do a comedy for once, a break from the monotony of big dramatic roles._

_Of course I’ve read_ The Door into Summer _. Great book. You should also read_ The Cat Who Walks Through Walls _._

_The whole thing with the studio sounds like a great opportunity. You write excellent songs, it would be good for you to get some proper recordings done so you can get your music out there._

_Oh, I just remembered, I actually wrote a tweet today. From what I can understand, the entire Internet imploded. I don’t know whether to be pleased about that or a little bit frightened. . ._

_I miss you too. Constantly. I started thinking about you during filming today and was obliged to excuse myself and go to the bathroom to splash some cold water in my face. Very unprofessional. I wish I could come home right now, so we could be together. It would be just the thing to help me relax from all this. I enjoy the work, but it’s taxing, and I have many emotional scenes coming up that I venture will be quite draining. Wish you were here so I could hold you as I go to sleep._

_Yours always,_

_Ben_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to Sasha Distan of GA, who came up with the title _Country Sunsets_ , and to jamessavik, also of GA, who came up with _Lunatics Who Think They Are Psychic and Freak Themselves Out in Old Houses_.


	8. The Brief Silence

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which there are rumours and Mark doesn't reply to Ben's e-mails.

_Ben Connor was seen, once again, in the company of his leading lady, Matilda Weber, laughing over a cup of coffee outside the set for their new film,_ The King’s Man _. The two seem to be getting along splendidly, with romance in the air, and this blogger for one is starting to believe there was really nothing to those ugly rumours circulating a few weeks ago.[. . .]_

 

_[. . .]Matilda Weber, home-grown Ohio girl, here depicted on set with her current costar and suspected love interest Benjamin Connor[. . .]_

 

 _Benjamin Connor, star of the recent hit science fiction epic_ Singularity Sky _, has been spending an awful lot of time with one Matilda Weber, his costar in_ The King’s Man _, a Revolutionary War romance currently filming. If rumours are to be believed, sparks are flying between the redcoat and the patriot both on and off set. Only time will tell if this is a work-place fling or something more._

 

Ben shut the lid of his laptop, leaning back in his seat and uttering an exasperated sigh. The media carousel was spinning again, it would seem. Harry had, at Ben’s own request, sent him a handful of quotes from magazines, blogs and online publications.

Since their first dinner date, Ben and Matilda had spent quite a bit of time together. She was by far the most interesting member of the cast and, though he knew several of the other actors from before and happily socialised with all of them, Matilda was the one he was most likely to seek out for a quick chat, a nice meal or a relaxing evening of red wine and company. Several photos had made their way out onto the Internet (a few of them from his and Matilda’s own Twitters), and it hadn’t taken long before people had begun to theorise.

Ben didn’t, as a rule, pay attention to the press. He didn’t google himself, didn’t read tabloids, gossip magazines or fan blogs, didn’t watch his own appearances in chat shows, hardly even read interviews with himself after they had been published. He deigned to read reviews of plays and films he appeared in sometimes, but nothing more. That was what he had Harry for. When Matilda had shown up on set that morning, however, laughingly telling him how her father had called her and asked when he would get to meet her new boyfriend, Ben had decided it might be time to find out what exactly was being written about them.

‘I had to explain to him that I don’t have a boyfriend, and that if he wants to know what I’m up to he should ask me and not believe everything he reads in the papers,’ Matilda had told him. ‘Poor dad . . . He said you looked like such a nice young man . . .’

Ben was beginning to rue his curiosity. The Internet was a terrifying place.

Filming was almost complete. They were back in Hollywood, now, wrapping up some left-over scenes and redoing some footage the director wasn’t happy with, after a couple of weeks on location shooting battle scenes and the like. During this time, Ben had hardly seen Matilda, since she wasn’t in those parts of the film, and he had found that he had missed her. He wondered what it would be like to return to London and not see her until it was time to start promoting the film the following spring. It would be a loss. She was a singular character.

Not that the prospect of leaving her behind was anything at all to the joy of returning home and seeing Mark. There was nothing in the world he wanted more than to hold Mark in his arms again.

Soon.

Ben refreshed his e-mail client. Mark still hadn’t send him an e-mail that day. He supposed he must be busy.

* * *

It wasn’t until the third day of radio silence that the nagging feeling in the back of Ben’s mind turned into full-blown worry. He had continued to write e-mails as usual, every evening before he went to bed, but Mark had not replied to them. When he was working, it was easy to ignore the worry, but when he got back to his hotel room in the evening it became too hard to bare.

Ben lay on his bed in the dark, fully dressed, and stared at the ceiling. His day had not gone very well. He had had a hard time concentrating during filming that day and had ended up leaving early with the excuse that he wasn’t feeling well. When he had got home, he had been shaking, which was why he had drawn the curtains and lain down in the dark.

He was worried. Officially. Really, really, properly worried, and it was eating at his insides like a persistent tapeworm, gobbling up his restraint. He had made a promise not to call, not to talk to Mark directly, because it would be too painful, but he was unsure of how long he could keep that promise.

It was times like these that he wished he had someone to really talk to. He had, many times in the past few weeks, debated whether he should tell Matilda the truth, if only for that reason. There was always Alice, but while he liked her immensely, ultimately she was still his assistant and not his friend.

Texting was not calling. He picked up his mobile and wrote, _Please just tell me you’re all right._ Then he sent it off to Mark, hoping against hope for some life sign.

Had something happened? Could Mark be hurt somehow? The thought put a sick feeling in Ben’s stomach and a bad taste in his mouth. Few things were quite as terrifying to him as that. Or was it that Mark simply didn’t want to speak to him? Was he angry for something? Had he decided that the long distance thing wasn’t worth it, and moved on? Was there someone else?

Ben spent a sleepless night turning the possibilities over and over in his head. He must have fallen asleep at some point, however, because when he opened his eyes sunlight was streaming into the room through the gap in his blinds. Ben sat up, rubbing sleep out of his eyes, and for a full minute he couldn’t remember why he felt so distraught. 

Then it came flooding back, and he grasped frantically for his mobile.

He had received no reply to his text, and fell back against the pillows with a sigh.

Ben turned over on his side, and pressed his mobile to his chest. He didn’t want to go to work. He felt flat, empty. He wanted to simply wallow in his misery, watch crap TV and eat crisps all day. It had been years since he had had a day like that. But he had a scene to finish that morning, and lunch with Charlie Hunnam later. Staying in bed just wasn’t an option.

* * *

‘Here’s your coffee.’ Alice handed him a large cup of Starbucks, which he accepted. ‘Ben, are you okay?’

‘Hm?’ Ben looked up her and smiled. ‘Oh. No, I’m fine.’

‘You don’t look it. Did something happen?’ She cocked her head to one side, eyes narrow.

Ben hesitated. ‘I . . . just didn’t sleep very well, that’s all.’

‘So, this is nothing to do with Mark, then?’ she asked quietly, sitting down in the chair next to his.

Ben looked away from her. He took a sip of his coffee. ‘It’s nothing. It’s probably nothing, I just . . .’ He sighed. ‘I haven’t heard from him in a couple of days, that’s all.’

‘Have you tried calling?’

Ben shook his head. ‘We decided not to do that, remember?’ He threw his head back. ‘I don’t know . . . Do you think I should?’

Alice elevated an eyebrow. ‘You’re asking me for relationship advice? You do realise that I haven’t had a real boyfriend in going on three years, right?’

‘That’s better than me . . . I haven’t had a boyfriend, ever.’

Alice smiled. ‘I’m sure he’s all right. But if you’re really worried, just call him. You must be allowed to do that much if he’s not replying to your e-mails or your texts.’

‘What time is it in London now?’ asked Ben.

Alice consulted her watch. ‘About eight in the evening,’ she said. ‘But you’ve got lunch to get ready for, remember?’

Ben looked at her. ‘Can you see if Charlie can reschedule, please?’

She shook her head. ‘You know, a year ago I would have told you to call him yourself, but I guess this is my job now . . .’ She smirked. ‘Go. Call Mark.’

Ben set off down the corridor until he found a quiet spot and pulled out his mobile. 

This felt so familiar. The worry, the fear . . . Hadn’t be been here before? What if Mark had done something really stupid again?

The phone rang and went to voicemail. He tried again. Still voicemail. Again. Again.

He lowered the mobile from his ear in defeat, staring at the screen. Perhaps cancelling lunch had been premature. Not that he would have been very good company in his current state, of course.

One more time. He would try just one more time and then he would graciously give up.

‘Hello?’ Mark’s voice sounded tired and flat.

‘Mark!’ Ben blurted, heart pounding in his chest. ‘Oh, my God, it’s so good to hear your voice . . . Are you all right? Why haven’t you been replying to my e-mails?’

Mark was quiet for a long moment. Ben waited in nervous silence. 

‘Mark?’

‘Yeah . . .’ He heard Mark take a breath. A faint rustle, of cloth perhaps. ‘I’m . . . I’m sorry, I . . .’ Then he sobbed, and Ben’s heart nearly broke in two.

‘What’s wrong? Has something happened?’

‘No . . . No, nothing’s happened, I just . . . I miss you so much! And I thought I could handle this, but I just, I can’t and . . . God, Ben . . .’

Ben felt helpless. Useless. Mark was in pain, something was very very wrong, and Ben could do nothing. He couldn’t hold him or kiss him or make him feel better. He was halfway around the world.

‘I’m sorry,’ he murmured. ‘Mark, I’m so sorry, I—’

‘It’s not your fault, you have nothing to feel sorry for,’ said Mark, sniffing. ‘I wanted to be able to handle this, to . . . And I was doing all right. I was. And then a couple of days ago it was like something just . . . cracked. And there were pictures all over the Internet of you and her and I—’

‘Mark, I promise, there’s nothing—’

‘I know. I know there’s nothing between you. I know that. I guess it all just . . . It became too much. I . . . I sort of have a history with depression and anxiety, you know? I haven’t . . . I haven’t been out of the house in like three days. I’ve barely been out of bed. I just woke up one day and didn’t want to get up . . .’

Ben took a deep breath. He wanted to do _something_. Cry. Scream. Hug his boyfriend. But all he could do was stand there, phone pressed tightly to his ear, holding back his tears. ‘I wish I could come home right now,’ he whispered. ‘I wish I could just board the next flight to Heathrow and come home and hold you and take care of you, but I . . . There’s only a little more than a week left of filming. Just nine days. And if I came home now I’d have to go back and finish them anyway and—’

‘I know you can’t come home. That’s why I haven’t written to you . . . I didn’t know what to say. I didn’t want you to worry.’

Ben almost laughed at that. Almost. ‘You know, you can be so very stupid,’ he said softly. ‘I mean, a real fucking idiot, you know? You didn’t want me to worry?’ He allowed himself a small chuckle. ‘Do me a favour and don’t ever try to spare my feelings again, okay? I haven’t been able to sleep, thinking you’d decided to leave me, or that you were hurt. You know, I actually care about you, so . . . When you feel like this, please tell me. I can’t do anything to help you if you don’t tell me, and I won’t worry any less if you don’t talk to me at all.’

There was a brief silence. Then Mark pulled a shuddering breath and sighed. ‘Okay.’

‘Okay. Now, here’s what you should do, all right? You call that wonderful mother of yours who you say is always so supportive, and you tell her that you’re not doing so well and ask if you can come home until you’re feeling better, so you don’t have to be alone.’ He paused. ‘You won’t feel any better from being alone. Trust me.’

‘What are you, my dad?’ said Mark weakly.

‘God, that would be very wrong, wouldn’t it?’ Ben smiled. ‘Look, I just don’t want you to sit alone in your flat and stew. You don’t have to take my advice, but I honestly, really think you’ll feel better. And I know you said you didn’t want to talk like this, that it would make things worse, but if you need to, please just call. I don’t want you to ever be in pain. All right?’

‘Yeah. All right.’

‘Take care of yourself. Take care of your heart. It’s very precious to me. I miss you.’

‘I miss you so much . . .’

‘Talk to you soon?’

‘Yeah.’

There were three little words waiting on Ben’s lips, then. He wanted badly to say them, but for whatever reason he just couldn’t bring himself to. So instead he said, ‘Goodbye,’ and hung up. 

* * *

When he returned to his hotel-room that night and logged into his e-mail account there was an e-mail from Mark waiting for him.

 

_Ben,_

_I took your advice and am now at my mum’s. She came and picked me up in a cab._

_I’m sorry I didn’t talk to you, that I didn’t reply to your e-mails or your text. I just couldn’t deal. I felt so lost and sad and alone without you and it all crashed down on me at once. I know what you’re like. I know what you’ll be thinking just now, and you can just stop thinking it right away. I would not be any better off if we weren’t together. I want to be with you. I need to be._

_I know that being apart is just a matter of fact for this relationship. I’ll learn to deal with it better. I promise. I’m in love with you. When you come back home, I’m gonna show you just how much. You’re a beautiful person. I miss you so fucking much that I can barely stand it, but I’m okay. I mean, I will be okay. I’ll see you when you get home, and I’ll take care of you. We’ll be together._

_Yours forever (at least in the sense of the foreseeable future),_

_Mark Xx_

 

Ben smiled. Mark really did know him. When had that happened? At some point, between awkward texts and amazing sex, Mark had become so much more than just a lover. He had become his best friend. He knew what Ben was thinking without even looking at him. He understood him in a way that he wasn’t sure anyone ever had before.

Maybe, just maybe, they could still pull this off.

* * *

The clear chink of crystal champagne glasses filled the room as they toasted the completion of filming. 

In less than twelve hours, Ben would be on a flight home, and only four days after returning he was to attend the first read-through of the scripts for the new series of _Hathaway_. Still, London and British crime television felt so far away just then, with a warm breeze and the smells and sounds of the California night wafting in through the open balcony doors. 

They had filmed his last scene just that day. As was often the case, it had been a short and simple scene, just a moment, really, where he sat at a writing desk composing a letter with a feather quill. Mundane, unemotional, nothing special at all. But when it was finished, Ben had smiled and bowed as the crew (and most of the cast who had come to watch) had applauded him. He had felt very moved.

He still felt it, and raised his glass in their honour. ‘To all of you wonderful people!’ he boomed. ‘Thank you all so, so much for the time we’ve had together!’ His words resulted in fresh applause, and soon several of his costars were queueing up to hug him.

Matilda was the last of them, throwing her arms around his neck and kissing his cheek. ‘Oh, I’m gonna miss you!’ she mumbled into his shoulder.

‘I’ll miss you too,’ said Ben earnestly. ‘I’m not leaving yet, though, we still have a whole party ahead of us, you know!’

She pulled back and grinned at him. ‘I know. Let’s go outside!’ She took his hand and dragged him out onto the balcony.

It was no cooler outside than in, but it was pleasantly quiet out there. Palm leaves swayed lazily in the wind. They stood by the balcony railings, gazing out over the lights of West Hollywood.

‘So, are you gonna tell me or not?’ 

Ben glanced at her, quirking an eyebrow in question. ‘Tell you what?’

‘Don’t play dumb!’ She poked his upper arm with a long finger. ‘As your beard, I feel like I have a right to know.’

Ben chuckled. ‘Ah, you mean that whole business. . .’

‘You haven’t denied the rumours about us. I assume there’s some reason for that.’

‘I, or should I say my publicist and I, haven’t addressed those rumours because it’s a non-issue until they start out-right fabricating their stories.’ He smiled at her. ‘You’re right, though, you have effectively been my “beard” for these past few weeks.’

Matilda looked up at him with a smirk. ‘Like I said. So, let’s hear it. You’re leaving tomorrow, what’s the point in keeping it from me anymore?’ She pouted. ‘Don’t you like me?’

Ben shook his head. ‘Nu-uh. I refuse to negotiate with terrorists and guilt-trippers!’ Matilda just laughed. He sighed. ‘All right, have it your way. . .’ He paused, gathering his thoughts. ‘Yes, I’m seeing a man.’

‘Haha, I knew it!’ Matilda grinned wider than was decent. ‘Is he hot?’

‘Oh, God, yes,’ said Ben. ‘You have no idea! Sometimes I wonder what the hell he sees in me, he could have anyone he wants. Sexy, gorgeous, marvellous in bed. . . I’m quite soppy about him, and I flatter myself that he feels the same way about me. Why, I couldn’t tell you.’

‘What’s his name?’

‘Mark.’ Saying the name out loud sent a small jolt through Ben’s stomach. ‘He’s a lot younger than I am, which I was quite uncertain about to begin with. . . But he shows wisdom beyond his years, one might say. He brings out all the best in me. Makes me relax, open up, lets me be a bit reckless. . . With him it’s like the rest of the world doesn’t exist, and I don’t have to worry about my career or the press or whether my next film will be any good. All I have to think about is us.’ He felt his face turn slightly warm, and blessed the darkness surrounding them.

‘He sounds perfect,’ said Matilda softly. ‘I’m happy for you.’

‘Thank you.’ Ben put an arm around her shoulder in a one-armed hug. ‘I _will_ miss you, though, you know.’

‘Well, maybe one day I’ll find an awesome boyfriend, too . . .’

Ben smiled, stroking her shoulder with his thumb. ‘When you do, tell him from me if he ever hurts you I’ll fly over from England in person just to kick his arse.’

‘Thanks, but I’m perfectly capable of doing my own ass-kicking.’

‘Oh, no doubt. But just in case you’d like some back-up.’

‘You bet. If he manages to overpower both myself and my three big brothers, you’ll be the first person I call.’

‘Pish posh! I’m just as macho as they are.’

‘No you’re not. You say things like “pish posh”.’

Ben laughed. He let go of her and drained his glass of Moët & Chandon. ‘Good luck with it.’

‘You too.’ Matilda took his hand in hers again. ‘Be happy.’

He squeezed her hand. ‘I shall endeavour to do my best.’

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I picked Charlie Hunnam completely at random for Ben's lunch date, because I like him.


	9. The Return of the Past

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Ben comes home and The Sun explodes.

Mark’s breath was hot in his ear, his bare chest pressed against Ben’s own. The heat and firmness of his body accentuated his words. ‘Fuck, I’ve missed you so much, I need you so, you have no idea!’

Ben had hardly had time to put his luggage down before Mark had been on him. He had given him a spare key to his flat before he left, with instructions on how to look after his orchids while he was away. The result of this was that when Ben had entered his flat, exhausted and jet-lagged, at seven in the morning on Thursday, Mark had been there waiting for him. 

As much as Ben had wanted to crawl into his bed and sleep for twenty-four hours straight, he had wanted Mark more, and it had taken very little effort on his lover’s part to convince him.

Now he lay on his back, naked, with Mark on top of him, hands wandering, lips hungrily kissing every part of him he could reach. Mark’s hand slid down his stomach to touch his cock and Ben threw his head back and swore loudly upon the contact he had been denied for so long. As Mark’s mouth followed suit, Ben found himself pleading, begging, he knew not for what.

‘Oh God, Mark, please . . . Oh, fuck, please, please . . . You don’t know how much I’ve missed you, how much I’ve longed for you, for this, fucking hell, just, I can’t, please!’

Mark didn’t let him come. Instead he climbed up on top of him again, straddling his middle and lowering himself onto his length, gasping and moaning, eyes wide open and pupils dilated. He stared straight into Ben’s eyes, his breath coming in ragged pulls as he began to move. When Ben reached for his cock, Mark redirected his hands to his hips, opting to take care of himself. This only served to turn Ben on even more, if that were at all possible, and he gripped Mark’s hips hard enough to bruise. 

He looked up at his lover’s face, and perhaps it was the jet-lag and the exhaustion, but he thought, _Here is my everything. Here is the man I would give anything for. Here is my love._

Ben hadn’t felt this way about someone in a long time. He wasn’t sure he ever had, not with this degree of passion. He had never felt like he needed someone the way he needed Mark. He had never loved anyone else like this.

And he said, ‘God, you’re gorgeous, Mark, you feel so good, you’re like—’ and he couldn’t think what to compare him to, so instead he continued, ‘You’re perfect. You’re so perfect and so beautiful and, _fuck_ , I love you!’ 

The words were out of his mouth before he had time to think, to even consider what saying them would mean, and just then Mark came with a cry, and Ben did as well, moments later, the pressure of Mark’s muscles closing around him too much to bear, and they collapsed in a tangle of limbs.

Mark pulled him into a fierce kiss. His eyelashes were moist against Ben’s cheek, and Ben put his arms around him, kissing him back with as much feeling as he could muster, until he realised that he was weeping from pure exhaustion, overwhelmed.

Then, when their lips broke contact, he said it again. ‘I love you, Mark.’

Mark uttered a breathless laugh. ‘Oh, sod it . . . I love you, too.’

* * *

The first time Ben woke up, the bed was empty aside from himself, but the pillow next to his was still warm and, satisfied that Mark was still around, Ben rolled over and fell asleep again.

The second time it was from the landline ringing noisily. Ben did not immediately open his eyes, however, and soon felt someone move next to him and lean across him, and heard Mark take the receiver from the night stand and say, ‘Hello? Oh, hi! Yes, but he’s sleeping. Jet-lagged, poor thing. Yeah, I’ll tell him.’

Ben stirred, opening his eyes slowly.

‘Oh, hang on, he’s awake.’ Mark took the receiver away from his ear and looked at Ben. ‘It’s your mum.’

Ben groaned and sat up, reaching for the receiver. Mark gave it to him and kissed him on the forehead before climbing out of bed. He was wearing very little, and Ben watched the sway of his hips appreciatively as he sauntered off to the bathroom.

He put the receiver to his ear. ‘Hi, Mum.’

‘Hello, love! How’s it feel to be back in the old country? Everything go well with the filming?’

‘Yes, it was good. Nice to be home, though.’

‘I can imagine.’ His mother paused for a moment. ‘So, was that him?’

Ben smiled. ‘Yes, that was Mark.’

‘He sounded nice.’

‘He is.’

‘Nothing to those rumours about Matilda Weber, then?’

‘Nothing whatsoever.’

‘Well, that’s all right, then. Are you happy?’

‘Very.’

‘Would you like to bring him over for dinner tomorrow night?’

Ben hesitated. ‘I . . . I’ll have to check with him first, but how’s a preliminary yes?’

‘I can live with that. Then, preliminarily, I’ll see you tomorrow. Ring us when you know.’

‘Will do.’

Ben got out of bed and followed Mark. He found him in the shower. Ridding himself of his pants, he slipped in behind him and wrapped his arms around him. Mark leaned back against him with a sigh.

‘I’m sorry,’ said Ben softly.

‘What do you have to be sorry about?’

‘About leaving you alone for so long and . . .’ Ben trailed off. He was sorry that it had hurt Mark so much to have him gone, but he didn’t know how to say it without sounding condescending.

Mark, however, seemed to be reading his thoughts again. ‘It’s not the first time I’ve been depressed, you know. All in all, this was pretty minor. Back when I was at my worst . . . Well, I could spend weeks in my room, hardly talking to anyone, with barely enough energy to get out of bed. It’s not your fault that I don’t know how to deal with my shit more constructively.’

‘Well, I’m still sorry.’

‘I know.’ Mark lifted one of Ben’s hands to his lips and kissed it.

‘My parents want to have dinner tomorrow,’ Ben murmured in his ear. ‘With both of us.’

Mark turned to face him, one eyebrow raised in surprise. ‘Really?’

‘Yes. Also, I would like to take you out tonight.’

Mark’s other eyebrow rose to join the first. He blinked a few times. ‘. . . You really mean that?’

‘I really mean it.’ Ben pulled him closer, kissing the top of his head. ‘I’ve made a decision. I’m sick of skulking around like it’s something to be ashamed of. It isn’t. I’m in love with you. I’m running out of fucks to give about who knows it. So, let’s have dinner, at a restaurant, like normal people.’

Mark giggled. ‘When I first met you you would never have said “running out of fucks to give”. At this rate we’ll have you swearing like Malcolm fucking Tucker by the end of the year.’ He stood on tip-toe and delivered a chaste kiss to Ben’s lips. ‘I would love to have dinner with you.’ 

* * *

Everything came at a price, of course. It didn’t take long for the rumour mill to start churning once Ben had been seen in public with his mysterious friend once again. Ben forbade Harry from releasing a statement, holding fast to his principle that this was none of the press’s business, and that he and Mark should be left alone. 

‘This is your decision, Ben,’ said Harry on the phone Monday morning as Ben was getting ready to leave for the first _Hathaway_ read-through. ‘But if they don’t get the story from you, they’ll try to get it from somewhere else.’

‘And we’ll get them for libel if they do,’ said Ben. ‘None of the people close to Mark or me would turn on us like that, so anything they do come up with will be speculation or out-right fabrication. When they start lying about me, if they start lying about me, we’ll deal with it then. Until then, my personal life remains mine.’

He could hear Harry sigh on the other end.

‘Look, I know you think I’m naïve,’ said Ben softly. 

‘You’re right, I do. Ben, you’ve been everyone’s favourite so far, never saying or doing anything controversial enough to upset anyone other than the hipsters of the blogosphere. The worst the mainstream media has been able to accuse you of is being a bit posh. But this is different. This is a hot topic right now. Hell, it’s always a hot topic, and people will ask questions, they’ll want answers, they’ll want to know your opinion on whole new issues now that you’ll be seen as a gay man. And I know you don’t see yourself that way, you don’t have to tell me again. It doesn’t matter how you see it. What matters is how the rest of the world does.’

‘And I would claim the opposite.’ Ben felt the heat rise in his voice and did nothing to suppress it. ‘I don’t care one bit about how the rest of the world sees me. As long as I still get work, I’m happy.’

‘All right. All right.’ Harry paused, and Ben could hear him rifling through some papers. ‘I’ve got you scheduled for Graham Norton for the _Country Sunsets_ premiere. You know he’s going to ask.’

Ben released a heavy sigh. ‘I know. If he does . . . I’ll give him an honest answer, all right?’

‘Thank you. That’s all I ask.’

‘Oh, speaking of _Country Sunsets_ ,’ Ben glanced over at the bed where Mark lay half-awake, ‘I want to bring Mark as my date for the London premiere.’

‘I’m not so sure the studio’s gonna like that,’ said Harry. ‘Aren’t you worried it might overshadow the film?’

‘I’m giving the media a good month to get used to the idea,’ said Ben dismissively. ‘What more do they want?’

‘A statement.’

‘Piss off, Harry,’ said Ben fondly. ‘I have to go, or I’m going to be late. We can continue this discussion later.’

‘Fine, have it your way. Bye.’

Ben hung up and sat down on the side of the bed, running a hand through Mark’s (currently purple) hair.

‘You’re really taking me to a premiere?’ asked Mark, sleepily. He caught Ben’s hand in his and brought it to his lips, kissing the knuckles gently.

‘If you’d like to go.’ Ben smiled. ‘It’s a request, not a demand.’

‘I’d love to go. Why do you think I snuck into that party in the first place?’ Then he frowned. ‘Hey . . . The person whose party I crashed, will she be there?’

Ben laughed. ‘Very possibly. Don’t worry, she’s nice.’ He glanced at the alarm clock. ‘I really have to go . . . Will you be here tonight?’

‘If that’s okay with you, yeah.’

‘Good. We’ll have dinner.’

Mark grinned. ‘I’ll cook. You haven’t had my cooking yet. I’ll make Shepherd’s Pie.’

‘Can’t wait.’

The two of them had spent most of the past few days, since Ben’s return, indoors, mostly naked, aside from having gone out for dinner in the city twice, and to Stevenage once. Dinner with Ben’s parents had gone remarkably well. Mark had somehow managed to keep the coarser parts of his personality on the inside without in any way diminishing his unique Mark-ness. Ben’s parents had both seemed to genuinely like him, though Ben’s mother had pulled her son aside before they left to ask if Mark wasn’t a little bit young. To that Ben had responded that he probably was but that he didn’t care and repeated that he was happy.

While lacing on his shoes, Ben only hoped that Mark could deal as well with the media hell undoubtedly awaiting them in the coming month as he had done with meeting Ben’s mother and father.

* * *

Exactly three days, five hours and sixteen minutes had passed before Ben was given the opportunity to find out. Two texts arrived almost at once, and it was only by chance that Ben’s mobile happened to be on that afternoon, and that Ben happened to be at liberty to read the texts.

The first was from Mark and read, _The shit’s hit the fan. Huge piece in The Sun._

The second came from Alice. _We’ve got trouble. It’s The Sun again. Harry wants to talk to you. I’ll be outside._

He found her in the next room ten minutes later, with a paper cup from Nero’s in her hand, a copy of The Sun tucked under her arm and a grim expression on her face. She handed him the cup (Cappuccino, Demerara sugar) and they walked briskly towards the exit.

‘Harry’s set up an emergency meeting at Liam’s office in fifteen minutes,’ Alice told him. ‘You can read the article in the car.’

Ben nodded. He pulled out his phone and typed a quick message to Mark. _Have to go to a meeting with my team. Meet me at the flat later? I love you._

As they slid into the back of the car, Alice handed him the newspaper.

 

**_Kinks and commitment issues—Benny’s ex-lover tells all!_ **

**_IN an exclusive scoop for The Sun, Benjamin Connor’s old boyfriend from uni reveals everything the actor refuses to tell us himself._ **

_THERE has been much secrecy surrounding Benjamin Connor’s relationship with a certain individual. The 35-year-old superstar actor has yet to make any comment on the rumours put forth in the media, though he and the young man, identified by unnamed sources as one Mark Harrison, have been observed together on several occasions since Benny returned from filming in America last week._

_Thanks to the tireless work of our research team, however, The Sun has been able to acquire a very lucrative source to Benjamin Connor’s past._

_“He was properly wild in bed,” Jonathan Lambert (35) recalls. “Up for anything, especially after smoking a joint or doing a line. He had some pretty extreme fetishes. Handcuffs, strangulation . . . You name it.”_

_Jonathan Lambert met Benjamin Connor at the University of Oxford, where they were both studying English Language and Literature at Exeter. Connor never studied dramatic arts, but was part of a local amateur theatre group throughout his time at university. Lambert recalls attending several performances._

_“Everyone who saw him act could tell that he was really talented. But whenever someone asked why he was studying English and not theatre, Ben would just laugh and say that acting was just a hobby. It never occurred to him, back then, that he might be able to make a living doing it.”_

_Connor and Lambert were involved for nearly a year before Connor broke it off in favour of a woman._

_“He met some bird and just dumped me, quick as you like. Kept saying he wasn’t gay, it was just for a laugh, and he liked women, really. Haven’t spoken to him since. Guess he wasn’t as straight as he claimed, eh? Of course, he may have grown up, but his tastes clearly haven’t.”_

_Lambert admits that it was always his intention to get back in touch with his old boyfriend, but life would have it differently._

_“I always thought the thing with the girl would be short-lived, and that soon I’d have him back in my bed again, but it didn’t quite turn out like that. I hope his new boyfriend is showing him as good a time as I would have, though I’m not sure that’s even possible.” Lambert grins mischievously—_

 

Ben crumpled the tabloid in his hands. They had begun to shake already at the first paragraph. He clenched his jaw, trying to regain his composure. He wanted to shout, or punch someone. Instead he closed his eyes and took a few deep breaths.

Jonathan Lambert . . . That had been his name. Details had begun to surface while he read. Had they really been at it for close to a year? He supposed it could be true, but he knew they hadn’t done it nearly as frequently as Jonathan had made out in his interview. 

It must have been nearly fifteen years since they had last seen one another. Ben dimly recalled a blond man, taller than he, with brown eyes and dimples. Ben had been under the impression that they had both simply been having a good time, though it was possible that Jonathan had felt more than he had. 

‘Are you okay?’ Alice’s voice was soft, kind.

Ben shook his head and smiled. ‘Jonathan Lambert had better hope never to run into me because if he does I will fucking rip out his—’

‘If he does, you’ll smile and shake his hand and not cause a scandal,’ said Alice firmly and Ben turned his head to look at her. Her face was pure empathy, but her jaw was set and her eyes showed a look of determination. Ben sometimes forgot that his mild mannered PA could be this commanding. ‘Right?’ she prompted.

‘Right.’ Ben took a deep breath and leaned back in his seat, gaze wandering out the window. ‘They know who Mark is.’

‘Yes.’

Ben clenched his fist. ‘They had better leave him alone.’

* * *

The meeting was a long and arduous affair, during which Liam and Harry argued back and forth over the best course of action while Ben tried to keep his composure.

‘Can’t you spin this? I mean, discredit the source somehow?’ asked Liam, running a hand through his greying hair. 

‘I’m a publicist, Liam, not Alastair bloody Campbell. How do I discredit a source I know nothing about?’ Harry shot back.

‘How do you discredit a source that’s done nothing but tell the truth?’ said Ben quietly. ‘He may have embellished a bit, but he didn’t actually lie.’

‘The bits about the drugs are not going to fly well with some of the studios,’ said Liam.

Ben shook his head. ‘Who didn’t smoke the occasional spliff in their uni-days? We’re talking about things that happened fifteen years ago, here. And it’s nothing to the drugs about eighty percent of Hollywood is on, anyway.’ He turned his gaze on Harry. ‘I’m more worried about where they got Mark’s name from.’ 

Harry blew out a breath of air and sat back in his chair. His auburn hair was dishevelled and his tie was loose. He looked tired and haggard. He had not had a very good afternoon. ‘I don’t know. Unnamed sources are just that . . . It’s the one place The Sun has even a little bit of integrity.’

‘Why do they always have to develop integrity just when you don’t want them to?’ Ben rested his face in his hands. ‘I just want to have a normal relationship. Is that really so much to ask?’

‘Afraid so.’ Harry’s expression was pained. ‘You’re an international movie star, Ben. It’s the price of fame.’

‘Of course it is . . .’ Ben leaned back and rapped the table with his fingertips. ‘Look, I don’t care about me, and there’s not much to comment on in this interview. Jonathan told something akin to the truth, and there’s no point in getting hung up on the details of it. I’m not going to lie, so . . . Please, just protect Mark, if you can?’ He looked from Harry to Liam to Alice, a pleading look in his eyes. ‘He doesn’t deserve this shit.’

‘I’ll do what I can,’ said Harry. ‘But I can’t promise anything.’

‘It’s all I ask.’ Ben stood up. ‘Is that all? As important as all this is . . . I really need to talk to Mark as well. He’s probably got questions.’

Liam nodded. ‘All right. Mike will take you home.’

‘Thank you.’

* * *

‘Mark?’ Ben tossed his keys on the table in the hall and began to unlace his shoes. ‘Are you here?’

There was no reply, so Ben headed for the bedroom.

He found Mark in the bed, curled up under the covers, asleep.

‘Hey.’ Ben sat down on the edge of the bed and stroked Mark’s forehead. ‘Wake up, sleepyhead. I’m back.’

Mark stirred, turning over on his back, and opened his eyes slowly. ‘Hi,’ he murmured sleepily.

‘You okay? It’s only—’ Ben checked his watch, ‘—eight o’clock.’

‘Just got a bit sleepy.’ Mark sat up, rubbing his eyes. ‘How did the meeting go?’

‘Absolute shit.’ Ben sighed. ‘I’m sorry to put you through this mess.’

Mark shrugged. ‘It’s not like I didn’t know this might be an issue from the beginning. It’s not your fault.’

‘No, but I still feel responsible.’ He glanced at his boyfriend. ‘I suppose I owe you some answers.’

‘I dunno about owe, but I do have questions.’

‘Then ask them.’

‘The article said you were with this guy for a year?’

‘A minor embellishment,’ said Ben. ‘It may have gone on for that long, but we didn’t do it very frequently.’

‘Did you do anything other than pot and cocaine?’

Ben shook his head. ‘No. And only a few times. Mostly only with him, I think . . . I’m fairly certain he was the one who was into that sort of thing to begin with.’

Mark nodded. ‘He said you were a notorious bottom?’

‘Did he? I didn’t make it to that part . . . Again, we didn’t do it as frequently as he made it out. I hardly even remember, but it’s possible that I bottomed a lot.’

‘Is that something you might want to do again?’

Ben gave it a moment’s thought. ’I think so. If you want to. I suppose I’m curious as to what it would be like, with you . . . in me.’

Mark took a deep breath. ‘All right. Just one more . . . Strangulation fetish?’

Ben looked away and blushed. ‘It’s not something I’ve done with anyone but him, really.’

‘Do you wanna try it with me?’

‘I . . . I suppose. Maybe? It hasn’t been a thing since. I mean, I’ve barely thought about it. But I wouldn’t be opposed to a little . . . experimentation. If you’re interested in that.’

Mark reached out and took Ben’s hand, pulling it to his lips and kissing his finger tips, one by one. Then he looked into Ben’s eyes, causing a very pleasant shiver to run up Ben’s spine. ‘I’ll do anything you want me to.’

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow, writing mock tabloid articles is harder than you'd think. Journalists talk funny, and it made me feel kind of dirty to visit The Sun's website to see how they format their pieces. God, I hate tabloids...


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